


Burning Like One Thousand Suns

by the_master_of_escapism



Series: Salvation Found in Damnation [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Drugs, Drunk Sherlock, Drunken Flirting, Hospital Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Investigation, Johnlock - Freeform, Kidnapping, Longing, M/M, Murder, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 07:47:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1337647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_master_of_escapism/pseuds/the_master_of_escapism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thrown into a darkness neither could fathom, Sherlock and John are caught in the fires of vengeance, fires that if burning too hot will destroy not only their hearts but also their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He wanted to show the world.

John climbed the steps leisurely. He didn't really know what to expect. He'd become slightly desensitised after the last year and a half of living with a psychopath. Correction, highly functional sociopath.  
"Why are you on the floor?"  
"Thinking," he replied curtly. He looked over the lean figure of his friend, hands pressed together with fingertips brushing his chin.  
"About?"  
"Lampropeltis."  
John paused, thinking it would be better not to ask for elaboration. "Right."  
"If you're going to insist on talking please do so somewhere I can't hear you," Sherlock said softly, eyes closed and body still.  
"I do live here you know," he replied with a touch of sourness.  
"Ah, yes. I forgot for a moment there," Sherlock mumbled vacantly, although he knew that wasn't really the case. He was the most non-vacant person he knew. "You live . . . here."  
"Well I'm going to make some tea," he muttered then called from the kitchen: "Do you want any?"  
"No," he heard him answer, the agitation evident.  
"Fine then," John said pleasantly, putting the kettle on and taking out a mug.  
The ceramic shattered against the floor.  
"Bored," Sherlock drawled out after his sudden yell of frustration. John sighed with exasperation and began to pick up the jagged pieces scattered around on the ground.  
"John," he summoned from the living room. He ignored him, continuing with the mess he had made at the shock of Sherlock's outburst.  
"John," he repeated. Shaking his head he pressed on with the task.  
"John!"  
"Dammit!" John hissed when a sharp edge sliced into his thumb.  
"John," he called again.  
"What is it Sherlock?" he queried through clenched teeth as he entered the main room to glare down at him; one hand full of broken mug and the other hanging in misery at his side, a thin trail of blood trickling mournfully down.  
"There are bandages in the top left cabinet, above the furthermost section of the kitchen work surface," he told him blandly, his eyes barely glancing at his hand. "Oh, do be careful not to alter the positioning of the glass jar in there. An ongoing experiment."  
"Is that it?"  
Sherlock contemplated for a moment more then jumped up with alarming speed, pulling his jacket straight and brushing off his arms.  
"A bit dramatic," he noted.  
"I'm bored, John. Drama is the one thing I crave right now."  
"Murder you mean," he corrected.  
"You know me so well," Sherlock grinned. "You seem agitated. Would you like me to kiss it better?"  
"I beg your pardon!"  
"A joke. Yes, something's on your mind," he fell silent, the gears working behind his eyes. "What though? That's the question."  
"Nothing's on my mind, Sherlock. Honestly. Go back to your mind palace and let me clear this up," he started to head back but halted when his rather questionable friend scoffed.  
"I was not in my mind palace. Its only use is for retrieval of relevant information. I wasn't remembering, John. I was thinking," he finished. "Something's on your mind."  
"I already told you there's nothing."  
"You dropped a mug when I yelled. You were a trained army doctor with vast field experience. Surely you had to work through gun fire and the pandemonium of battle, so my outburst shouldn't have elicited such a reaction. That and the third button on your jacket is in the fourth's hole, not to mention your hair is parted differently today, altering from the kept parting of the last several months. Then I've noticed you're favouring your left leg, reminiscent of the time you spent with a completely unnecessary crutch due to your psychosomatic limp," he drew a breath in. "Something's on your mind, John."  
"Really, I don't feel like anything is. So, as much as I appreciate the deduction which will always baffle me, I think I'll just go to bed now."  
"Your thumb," Sherlock reminded him.  
"Oh, right," he started for the kitchen again but was cut off.  
"Let me."  
Sherlock brushed by effortlessly and fetched the cardboard box, pulling a plaster from it. Returning he gestured for John to hold out his hand.  
"This is silly. I'm a grown man and I can put on a plaster."  
"I do not question your capability, I'm simply taking it into my own hands," Sherlock explained while his long, elegant fingers wrapped the plaster over the cut. The antiseptic on the plaster stang momentarily. "There. Now stop brooding and come have dinner with me."  
"What? Married to your work weren't you?"  
"Come now, John. I simply want to get to know you better," he smiled again and nudged his arm.  
"Something's not right with you now, Sherlock."  
"Hm. A bad attempt at colloquial social interaction," he muttered, his tone of voice returned to that rich, deep and slightly guttural resonance John was more accustomed to. "I don't see why I bother. Anyway, time to go."  
"To dinner?"  
"Yes, John. Please do keep up," Sherlock said with an air of condescension. "Oh, you haven't eaten have you?"  
"No, but-"  
"Well then," he interrupted and left down the stairwell, grabbing his coat which hung on the banister. "Time is of the essence, John!"  
He grumbled to himself sullenly before following his colleague. "We're going to dinner, I think it can wait for us."  
"Quite the contrary. If we're too late we'll be having supper, and the connotations of that are even more misleading," he clarified.  
"What do you mean?"  
"Our last outing left you . . . uncomfortable, in how the public perceived us, John. Dinner is one thing, supper? Well, supper is the meal consumed before retiring to bed," he continued, wrapping the scarf expertly around his neck, It sunk in and John nodded slowly.  
"Ah," was all he could say.  
"Ah indeed," Sherlock smiled lightly before pulling open the door to Baker Street and stepping onto the wet pavement.  
"Do take care of Sherlock, will you? He's been acting odder than usual lately," Mrs Hudson said to John before he left.  
"I'm sure he can take care of himself," he replied reassuringly with a smile. Her apprehensive expression softened the ounce of annoyance he harboured towards Sherlock. "I'll take care of him."  
"Good, and don't forget to have fun," she with a grin and John closed the door. Sherlock had hailed a cab and was climbing in, John hastily joining him.  
"What did she ask you?"  
"Just to pick up some milk if I have the time," he answered, clearing his throat afterwards.  
"Hm," Sherlock stared at him, pondering.  
"What?"  
Sherlock turned to look out of the rain speckled window. "Nothing."  
The taxi began to roll down the street, the soft thrum of the engine and the traffic of London all John could listen to.  
"Where are we going?"  
"Soho."  
"Can I know why?"  
"Dinner, John," Sherlock responded, obviously fighting to keep the vexation out of his voice.  
"Right. I just thought we might be going somewhere a little closer," he said truthfully. "That's all."  
Sherlock faced him, eyebrows raised. "Would you prefer if we turned back?"  
"No," he said quickly. "No, Soho's great. Soho's fine."  
He met the gaze of two narrowed eyes and smiled to smooth out any suspicion Sherlock had. He could never tell him how odd he always found it. Going to dinner with him, eating food while he just sat there watching the world, offering to pay since he was the only one who ate to have Sherlock hush him and pay for the food himself.  
After a long, drawled out ride of occasional conversation they arrived, stepping out into the throngs of people on the street. Sherlock handed a wad of bills to the taxi driver through the window and turned up his collar against the wind. The dark world was lit up by flashing shops and glowing red lanterns, the night world having come to life. London certainly had its charm.  
"This way, John," Sherlock alerted him as he began walking down the street. He caught up and fell in step with him.  
"Do you feel like Chinese then?"  
"Oh, sometimes you really do say such unintelligible things. Obviously, John."  
He gritted his teeth at the insult. "Could have ordered takeaway you know."  
"Ah, but where's the fun in that?" Then he made a sharp turn into a restaurant, a waiter leading them to a quiet corner. The air was thick was heavy aromas and the walls were plastered with a rich red and gold pattern, matching the expensive scarlet fabric draped over the round table. Sherlock sat down on one of the two dark oak wood chairs and began to undo his scarf, draping it on the back of the chair; it was shortly followed by his coat.  
"Menus," the waiter announced, his accent eastern.  
"Thank you," John reciprocated, having taken his seat on the opposite side to Sherlock. "This isn't like you."  
"What isn't?"  
"Normally you sit near the window. So you can watch everything and everyone."  
"Then tonight I'll be watching you," he remarked calmly, reviewing the lists of meals and dishes with mild boredom. "What will you be having?"  
"Hang on, I haven't had a chance to even look yet," John said, removing his jacket and pouring over the selections. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him and bristled slightly, but continued regardless. "Hm, the Pecking Duck sounds good."  
"Waiter!" his consulting detective friend suddenly hailed. The man came quickly, a genuine smile on his face. "Two Pecking Ducks and some Baijiu please."  
"Ah, celebrating?" the Asian man inquired.  
"No-"  
"Yes, we are," Sherlock interjected. The man nodded respectively, having noted down the order, and left.  
"What the hell is Bayju?"  
"Baijiu," he asserted.  
"What is it?" John snapped.  
"A white liquor, John."  
"You drink?"  
"Sometimes." John fell silent, watching as Sherlock watched him.  
"I didn't know you drank," he commented, his voice having softened.  
"I'm not an alcoholic," his friend informed sternly.  
"Yes, I know. I wasn't saying you were. So, um, what's your poison as they say?"  
"A crude term, but I'll go along. Nothing specific, whatever's there and looks interesting. I never try the same thing twice though."  
"Why not?"  
"It's dull."  
"Of course it is," he mumbled.  
"John, have I upset you?" There was an agitated undertone to his words.  
"No, Sherlock. I just . . . I'm tired. The shifts at the hospital, then working with you and the cases. I get barely any sleep and I think it's getting to me, that's all," he muddled out of his confused mind, then sighed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to spoil your mood."  
"Not at all. You can sleep now if you like," he suggested, his face void of mockery.  
"In the middle of a restaurant?"  
"I'm sure they won't mind," Sherlock added, his voice sounding entirely convinced of it.  
An honest grin broke out on John's face and he chuckled, Sherlock joining him. The rest of the evening progressed well enough, they ate and spoke about menial things: how his job was going, what Sherlock did in his spare time - the details of which were disconcerting to say the least - and touched precariously upon the issue of John's relationships.  
"None at the moment. I end up scaring most of them away," his brows knitted together for a moment. "How about you? Still consider yourself married to your work?"  
"Always, John," Sherlock answered with a small smile. "You haven't had any of the Baijiu. It really is delightful."  
"Now that you mention it, why did you tell the waiter we're celebrating?"  
"Because we are."  
"I think I'd know if there was anything to celebrate," John said confidently.  
"On the contrary. We're celebrating the day we moved into 221B Baker Street together," he enlightened him, an odd glitter in his eyes.  
Realisation set in. "I can't believe I forgot. Wait, how did you remember?"  
"Mind palace. I thought the Baijiu would be a nice touch; we would have gone out anyway of course," Sherlock informed him, taking a sip of the clear liquid. The wet sheen clung to his top lip. He'd never really notice Sherlock eat anything, at least not a sat down meal in a restaurant. It was interesting to see, or observe as Sherlock would have it. "Are you going to have any at all?"  
John shook his head. "No, probably not."  
"More for my enjoyment then," Sherlock declared and threw back the rest of the liquor before pouring more.  
"Aren't you going to get drunk?"  
"Never," he said in assumed astonishment. "I handle my alcohol exceptionally well."  
"Mhm, of course you do," John said with little meaning, eyeing Sherlock with worry.  
"To a long lasting partnership in crime, then?" Sherlock offered a toast and John smiled complacently.  
"A long lasting partnership indeed."

John unlocked the door to the flat as quietly as was possible. He looked back to see Sherlock stumbling around, apparently in great confusion as to where to go. The occasional way his knees buckled made John smile to himself at how ridiculous the man looked. Sherlock Holmes drunk, not unlike his drugged state.  
"Sherlock," he whispered, with equal parts pity and amusement. "Come on."  
He lead the man to the doorway and thankfully he managed to make it up the stairs on his own. Only slightly disoriented then.  
Getting into the main living area himself, John shrugged off his jacket and slung it onto the sofa. He listened to the sounds of footsteps and an occasional bang to know Sherlock had made his way to his bedroom.  
A load groan erupted. "John!"  
Concern coursed through him and he charged to Sherlock's aid to find him lying draped over his bed on his stomach.  
"I thought you had hurt yourself, for god's sake!"  
"Don't be ridiculous. I do need your help though,"  
"I cannot believe you got drunk," John said honestly, letting the irritation drip off his words.  
"The alcoholic percentage was considerably higher than I had anticipated. I'd estimate around fifty percent alcohol by volume," he drawled out, the vibrations of his voice in the air still distinct and soothing.  
"And you drank the entire bottle."  
"I wasn't going to let it go to waste now, was I?"  
John puffed out all the things he felt like ranting about and instead opted for the safer option. "You said you need my help?"  
"I find my motion is rather inhibited, and I'd prefer not to sleep in my suit. It's more expensive than your entire wardrobe and then some," Sherlock insulted him, even in his addled state.  
"So?" John asked bluntly.  
"So, help me change. Really, even with my mind functioning at half its average capacity you're still phenomenally dim."  
"Fine. I'll help you if you apologise."  
Sherlock's moan of objection was like the pluck of a cello string. "Very well. I extend to you my sincerest apology for any offence I may have caused."  
"That's hardly sincere, now is it?"  
"Bloody hell, John, just help me!" he yelled, rolling on his back and sitting up, pressing the palm of his hand to his forehead. "Please?"  
"Okay, okay. I suppose that thanks is the most I'll get out of you," he mumbled in defeat and moved forwards. Sherlock lifted his chin.  
"Buttons."  
"You can really do that yourself."  
"But-tons," he stressed. John let out a breath and leaned forwards, undoing the fine buttons of his jacket one by one. His hands tingled slightly as they moved lower but he pushed past the slight embarrassment. Once that layer was done he reached up for Sherlock's shirt's buttons. The fabric was silky, obviously expensive.  
As each popped out, another inch of his ivory skin was revealed, until finally the shirt was undone. His eyes quickly skimmed over the exposed chest to look at Sherlock. His eyes were closed and he hummed softly.  
"Sherlock?" His voice sounded tentative.  
"Yes?" The word floated out of his parted lips at a lethargic rate.  
"Your buttons; they're done."  
"Good, now continue."  
John bit the inside of cheek, shaking his head. "Okay."  
He carefully sat on the edge of the bed besides Sherlock and began removing the jacket, shifting Sherlock's arms precisely to succeed. Then following his shirt. Heat radiated from his cool looking skin, and it caressed John's own warm fingers. The dim light of his table lamp cast an amber hue about the room; one which threw shadows to accentuate every curve of muscle of Sherlock's torso. John's breath hitched.  
"Wow," he breathed, barely registering what he'd just said.  
"You flatter my talents and body. I'm touched." Sherlock's eyes flashed open and he looked into John's. "Are you going to remove my trousers, or will you leave that up to me?"  
"You don't sound drunk," John commented with mild surprise, but predominantly confusion.  
"That's because I'm not, John."  
"You tricked me," he rephrased Sherlock's meaning, the hurt in his voice obvious.  
"No, I tested you. I need to know you'll help me. Even when I'm drunk and rude. You passed by the way. With flying colours." Sherlock was suddenly only two inches away from him, his intoxicated breath enough to make his mind swirl. "As I was saying, trousers?"  
"I'm not gay."  
"I'm not saying you are. Trousers?"  
"Really, Sherlock, I'm not."  
"Again, I'm not calling you as such. Remove. My. Trousers. Please?" It was almost like a plead. Almost.  
"Why?"  
Sherlock groaned and fell back onto his back. "It's so much hassle to do it myself."  
"You lazy sod," John scoffed.  
"C'est la vie, John," Sherlock said with a heady french accent and threw John a penetrating glare. "I don't have all night."  
John's eyes travelled down, resting upon the belt and going no further. His hands reached for it slowly, undoing the buckle and being careful not to brush the bare abdomen of his . . . whatever Sherlock was. Then he snaked the belt out of its loops with a slight prompt to Sherlock to lift his hips. The motion made his heart thump heavily.  
"I, um, I," John stuttered for what to say. 'Please lift your hips so that I may pull down your trousers.' was what he knew he should say, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. "Look, Sherlock. I don't know what this is, but I'm not comfortable with it, so please stop."  
He glanced to his face, and saw Sherlock's eyes closed, head tipped to the side and lips parted. His chest rose steadily and dropped much the same, his breathing deep and long.  
"You're asleep. You've actually fallen asleep. I bet that drink did get to you, liar," he insinuated, the silence he received giving him a hollow feeling. "Well, I'll tuck you in, shall I?"  
He meant it as a joke but the thought occurred to be a good one. Moving further along the bed, John slipped his arms beneath Sherlock's back and hoisted him up into a sitting position. His head rolled to the side and rested against John's chest, his entire body loose like a rag-doll's.  
"You're one hell of a heavy sleeper." John was talking mainly to centre his thoughts. The sensation of his hand moving along Sherlock's naked skin was abstract and oddly exiting, something his mind couldn't be allowed to linger upon.  
"I love you, John," Sherlock slurred out in his unconscious state.  
"Yup. The drink did get to you, even if only a little. Fifty percent is one hell of a lot after all."  
John started to awkwardly thrust Sherlock further up the bed, laying his head down onto a pillow. Lifting his legs he swung them round to run in conjunction with the rest of his slender body. Slender, but shockingly muscled. Soft brunette curls rested against Sherlock's forehead, almost giving his sleeping state a mirage of innocence.  
"Good night, Sherlock," he whispered, making to leave but flicking the lamp light off. The darkness swarmed in with no moment to spare but John could still make out the darker yet figure of the drowsing man on the bed. "Sleep tight."

"Freak," Sergeant Donovan began, "Lestrade says you've seen this before. He's hoping you can help him make sense of it."  
"Make sense of what?" Sherlock inquired, his words rolling off his tongue in laziness. The yellow police tape cut off the alley from the public, alongside the three police cars that surrounded the mouth and the guards, keeping the people's eyes away from anything of importance. John shook himself awake, pulling his jacket closed in the early morning chill.  
She gestured behind herself and stepped out of the way, handing over notes to another police officer. Sherlock ambled forwards, head at an angle as he examined the back of a hanging body. As he rounded to the front his expression hardened, his body turning stiff.  
"Sherlock, what is it?" John asked as he came to stand next to the other man. "My god . . ."  
He covered his mouth and spun around, the wrenching of his stomach almost too much to bear. The image flashed into his mind and his blood grew cold with horror.  
"Sher-" he started but couldn't finish as the nausea returned. "I've seen some bad things in my day, bad things, but this?"  
Lestrade walked over from a consultation with a witness, seemingly an occupant of a flat that overlooked the alley.  
Sherlock didn't even look at him when he queried, "When was he found?"  
"About an hour ago. A call from a passer by, who apparently came here for a smoke and damn near walked into the dead man," Lestrade informed him, his face pinched in slight disgust at the body.  
"It was still dark then. I can see why you requested me at such an ungodly hour," he said, his eyes studying and analysing every inch of the victim. "It's just like-"  
"The infamous Tortor cases five years ago, yes," Lestrade noted. "Same . . . style, same display. It can't be him, can it?"  
"It's not."  
The detective's face grew graver, if it were even possible. "Don't tell me we have a copy cat?"  
"Oh no. There are hundreds, thousands even, of ways a human being can be tortured, Detective Inspector. Just because one sadist in the past favoured it as a killing method doesn't mean it's patent."  
"I'm sorry, Tortor?" John interrupted, still recovering from the sight.  
"Latin for tormentor, torturer. Rather unimaginative, but the word was found burned onto the victims' upper back, in all thirteen cases."  
"Bloody hell, thirteen? Like this?" John exclaimed, shutting his eyes and calming his breathing. His eyes brows pushed together. "A mark?"  
"Of belonging. He wanted to show the world what he'd done. Treated it like art," Sherlock recalled, stepping closer to the body. John dared another look. Hung with wrought iron chains tight around his ankles and attached to the fire escape. The light brown suit was dirty, roughened, and in most places torn or blackened - fire the most likely cause. The lower body wasn't what immediately caused the jolt of sickness however. The intestines, thick goo of innards and internal organs that hung loosely from his sliced open gut were what caused his mind to spin. That and the expression the man held. Mouth agape, stained red with blood that had run down his face as he hung, and the puffy, swollen holes. Where his eyes should be. Brain matter had seeped through the orbitals, creating an image so gruesome his own brain could barely comprehend it.  
He took note with a sour disposition the proximal and distal phalanges, which had been snapped. He could tell by the bruising of the skin and odd jutting in the man's hanging hands.  
"So," Lestrade cleared his throat. "I'll leave you to it then shall I?"  
"Hm," Sherlock sounded in reply, circling the body.  
"You've seen this sort of thing before," John muttered, more as a statement than a question. His eyes remained transfixed on the nightmarish scene. "Sadist you said?"  
"Enjoys the pain of others. Perfect if you're a torturer. Makes it fun."  
"Must've been hard."  
"Not really."  
John became quiet, having almost forgotten Sherlock's nature. A part of him throbbed with pain as a result of his sudden revelation. It was a dull, continuous ache. "This Tortor, in prison is he?"  
"Yes," Sherlock replied, now having taken out his magnifying glass and proceeding to examine the man's shoes.  
"A completely new killer then?"  
Sherlock continued to study various areas of the man, mainly his clothing, legs and arms. The rest of him was in no state to be under a scrutinising eye. "Don't state the obvious, it really doesn't help - in any capacity."  
John watched him as his entrancing eyes darted from thread to thread, crease to crease. His mind was no doubt speeding away with explanations, reasons, deductions. The previous evening's events flashed into his mind.  
"Are you all right, Doctor Watson? You seem deathly pale."  
"Cold, that's all."  
"Nasty weather, I must say. The smell isn't too pleasant either," Lestrade remarked, nose crinkling. John had barely noticed, but there was an odd stench about the place. A stagnant foulness in the air, emanating from a dumpster a few meters away. "Sherlock, what do you have?"  
"Recently visited a warehouse, southwest London - most likely the murder site-"  
"He wasn't killed here?"  
"Obviously," Sherlock sighed. "The lack of blood is a give away, Detective Inspector. Not one drop beneath him, which means the blood had already coagulate by the time he was moved here. As for the warehouse, I'd say an icon of the Industrial Revolution with the coal staining his shoes," he continued, rolling his eyes at the baffled expressions of John and Lestrade. "The coal would be gasified in furnaces, impurities removed and then stored and shipped out where needed. Some such warehouses, or factories, never found another use and remain today. Cleared out yes, but it's quite a feat to clean the whole place and be sure nothing was left behind - for instance soot."  
"Coal can be found anywhere, Sherlock. That's hardly a lead,"  
"Ah, but if you look closely: wedged in the ridges of his shoe's soles are these granules; grey, hard and seemingly porous. Coke, Detective Inspector, and when placed besides coal tar - which you can see smudged on his socks and hands, there are only a limited number of places left. The Gas Light and Coke Company, given a grant by the Royal Society in the Industrial Revolution to produce coal gas and coke. Several locations, a few left unrenovated, just one preserved."  
"How do you know all that?" John asked, biting back the exclamation of praise that wanted to leap out.  
"I read."  
"So where is this place?" Lestrade pressed, putting pen to paper.  
"Fulham, Sands End. North bank of the Thames."  
Lestrade flicked out his phone in a manner of seconds, reporting the information and requesting a squad to be sent there at once.  
"If it's preserved, how did the killer get there and well . . . do this?"  
"The security is hardly Fort Nox, John."  
"I know, I just-"  
"This world is remarkably unsafe. Locking doors, gates and fences are just mental comforts to ourselves. The reality is that nothing can really stop intruders, short of death that is," Sherlock said wearily. Then his eyes widened for a split second. "Is that why you sleep with your Sig Sauer P226R?"  
"Sh," John shot him down quickly, perfectly aware it wasn't entirely legal for him to have it. "How did you? When, what!?"  
"I observe, John," Sherlock said with a twinkle in his eyes. "Now, how about we go and pay a visit to his work?"  
"Where does he work?"  
"Figure it out," Sherlock ordered, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You've watched me make my deductions, now it's your turn."  
"Um," John began, brows knitted together as he looked over the body - the pressure of Sherlock pressing down his sickness of the man's physical state.  
"Not the best of starts."  
John took a deep breath. "Well, his shoes are smart. Judging by the style and fabric, expensive. His suit is much the same, really top notch. Oh, and these cuff links, sterling silver by the looks of it. So, definitely rich."  
"Very good," Sherlock encouraged him.  
"Then, his ring," he paused, leaning in closer. "It has an insignia, a 'CC'. A name?"  
"Perhaps."  
"Oh, for goodness sake, you know what it means don't you?"  
"Of course, but I want you to deduce it."  
"Rich, smart, I don't know, a banker?"  
The hiss of objection from Sherlock put that theory in the bin.  
"Lawyer then? CC, could be the name of the firm. I know some members show their support by commissioning things like it. Given how well off he is, a successful law firm. I don't have them memorised though, so that's as far as I go."  
"Charles Cane. Upper Bank Street if I remember correctly. No time to waste, come along."  
"That's the name of a person."  
"Yes, a very obnoxious person who's named their firm after their own name. How preposterous, wouldn't you agree?" he said with superficial offence, heading back onto the street and ducking under the tape.  
"Taxi!" he beckoned, opening the door swiftly. "After you, John."  
Still trying to catch up with what was happening he stopped into the back and took his seat.  
"Oi! Where are you going?" Lestrade called, noticing their rushed departure.  
"Research, Detective Inspector," Sherlock replied before he entered as well. "Upper Bank Street, please."


	2. The one who fights for the angels.

The lobby's ceiling towered high above, the entire area dripping with prestige. The air was brisk, a place of business not enjoyment.  
"How may I help you?" a young woman asked from behind a marble counter. "Do you have an appointment with one of our employees?"  
"Yes, Terry Cartwright." John eyed him with curiosity. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing, even knowing who to ask for.  
"Name?"  
"Sherlock Holmes," he informed her, straightening his jacket and turning to face John with a wink.  
"If you'll give me a moment," she requested curtly, scanning the lit up computer screen quickly. "Sorry, your name isn't listed."  
"Then there's a computer error," he stated with authority. "I'm here to discuss a highly confidential matter with the Regional Managing Partner for London, and I'm sure Mr Cartwright won't take it all too well that his secretary has denied him a planned meeting. Trust me, you don't want to get on his bad side. Then again, you know that, don't you?"  
Fear shone in her hazel eyes. "Of course not."  
"Then, will you please hand over a visitors pass so that myself and my colleague may get along with our business. You're impeding upon serious matters," he looked towards the smart bronze pin on her jacket, "Miss Reid. Don't make it worse."  
"Here you are, Mr Holmes," she handed him a plastic card and then held one out to John. "And you, Mr?"  
"Dr Watson," he filled in and took it, trying to act like he belonged. Her expression seemed perplexed but she let him take it anyway. "Thank you for your time. Where-"  
"Down the left corridor. Floor thirty eight."  
Sherlock nodded at her and strutted towards the lift, John in step behind him - their footsteps bouncing against the marble walls.  
"How do you do it?"  
"Do what?"  
"Act like that? I've never asked, but the way you just . . . become a different person."  
"You really don't understand the concept of being a sociopath, do you? Manipulation, John. It's my forte," Sherlock explained while he pressed the circular button that lit up with golden light.  
"Is everything you do manipulation?" he asked softly, the way Sherlock had asked him to undress him, the trousers, the belt, oh god the hips.  
"Don't look so wounded, John," Sherlock said, shocking John to know that his emotional injury had pushed it's way onto his face.  
"I'm not, but is everything you do manipulating in one way or another?"  
"No. I manipulate when it's an advantage, and that doesn't mean I always need to. Even if I do, is it such a bad thing? I simply know what to do and when, and it keeps me ahead of the game," he revealed, walking into the equally posh lift and pressing the button with the number thirty-eight printed on it in black.  
"And is that what life is to you? A game?" The bronze doors slid shut and the lift began to move.  
"The greatest game of all, John," he replied, the mischief in his voice blatant.  
"I've been meaning to ask-"  
"Oh, questions, questions. So idiotic and useless," Sherlock moaned.  
"Just, listen. For once. Last night," he stopped, the words stuck in his throat. "Last night, what was that all about?"  
"I'm afraid you'll need to elaborate."  
"You know what I mean, Sherlock. You asking me to undress you. The Baijiu, and the belt and the hips,"  
Sherlock's brow arched. "Hips?"  
John sighed, scrubbing his face. "Your hips, when I took of your belt. You know what this is stupid. I'm sorry I brought it up."  
"No. Please, continue," Sherlock insisted, a smile playing along his lips.  
"Why did you do it? You could have just slept in the suit, regardless of it being expensive or whatever. You've done it before. Why was last night different?"  
"I was bored. You were interesting."  
John's heart thumped. "You, um, also said something?"  
His voice cracked at the end, jumping into a high octave that he cursed himself for. Sherlock chuckled lowly.  
"Is that a statement or a question?"  
"Do you remember?"  
"What I said? Yes, I do."  
"It's just that, you were drunk, so I thought that maybe-"  
"I told you I wasn't."  
"I had to put you to bed because you fell asleep while I was talking," he defended, eyes wide with how Sherlock kept on denying it.  
"Your ramblings have the ability to bore a man to death, sleep is hardly a far jump from that."  
"I thought I was interesting," he quipped.  
"Oh," he drew it out, the low and rough sound rippling in the air. "You are."  
John shook his head, shunning the warmth that had spread through his body at the noise Sherlock had made. "I can't have an adult conversation with you can I?"  
"It's sweet of you to try."  
There he went again, catching John off guard and making his skin tingle. "Terry Cartwright; Who is he?"  
"Regional Managing Partner for London," Sherlock recounted. "I did some research into the company on the ride over here. The internet really is a marvellous resource."  
"That's how you knew." The doors slid open with a ding and they marched out, a door at the end of the corridor. A silver plaque read 'R.M.P. - Terry Cartwright' in sophisticated lettering.  
Sherlock held his hand up to the door and knocked, looking to John afterwards and saying, "Let me do the talking."  
"Come in," a voice welcomed on the other side and Sherlock pushed down the handle, striding to stand before the large rectangular glass desk. The man behind it was around forty, stern lines marking where his brows had pressed together a few too many times. The black, combed back hair was greying at the roots and his eyes were hardened. "Who exactly are you?"  
"Sherlock Holmes. I'm here to inform you about the empty position you have just recently acquired."  
"What on earth are you talking about?"  
"Dale Hughes," Sherlock said while pulling out his phone and displaying it to Cartwright. On it was the news article about the affore mentioned Dale, who had gone missing two days previously.  
"You found him?"  
"Dead, yes."  
"God, dead?"  
"Tortured and dead to be exact."  
"Sherlock," John warned.  
"No use in sugar coating it. It wastes time. I'd like you to tell me anything and everything about Dale and the days proceeding his death. If you wouldn't mind,"  
"Are you the police?"  
"Yes," and Sherlock whipped out Lestrade's stolen Scotland Yard badge. "Detective Inspector Sherlock Holmes. I'm sure you know the law, Mr Cartwright. So, if you would please enlighten me."  
"Dale, well he was a good man. Brilliant barrister. One of the best in the business, most certainly in the project development and finance sector. That's where he worked. He was working on getting the planning permissions for developing a leisure centre I think it was, but there were some major legal issues. It was a grade two listed building, so there needed to be meetings to work out it's historical significance, that sort of thing."  
"Let me guess. An old Gas Light and Coke warehouse,"  
"Yes, how did you know?"  
"Irrelevant. How were the legal side of things going?"  
"Well, the decision is supposed to be made this afternoon, but because of Dale's absence, the plans will be refused."  
"And who will benefit from this turn of events?" John spoke up, knowing a suspect was only one reply away.  
"No one."  
"No one?" Sherlock repeated, apparently surprised himself. It was a rare achievement.  
"Drew," Cartwright murmured, his eyes staring into the distance.  
"Who's Drew?" Sherlock jumped onto it in a second.  
"Dale's brother," Cartwright carried on, rubbing the stubble of his chin. "He's going to be devastated."  
"Drew and Dale?" John said with amusement. "Alliteration in siblings, I bet they loved that."  
"John, really," Sherlock said with disappointment.  
"For Pete's sake, you're the one who smiles about murder," John reminded him, irked that Sherlock was let down by his taste in humour when he himself was much worse.  
"I don't find it amusing, John. I find it interesting," Sherlock sneered.  
"Oh, yeah, I know all about what you find interesting,"  
"Okay, what are you two talking about?" Cartwright inquired.  
"Doesn't matter. Can you give us the address of Drew? We'll deliver the sad news," Sherlock said, his voice feigning grievance.  
"Yes, of course. He lives in Belgravia, Eaton Place. My secretary can give you the most direct route," he told them, standing and escorting them to the door.  
"Thank you for your trouble," John added as they left. "So this Drew Hughes. Do you think he did it?"  
"Nope," Sherlock chimed as he entered the lift, his long finger tapping the ground level button.  
"How can you be sure?"  
"He's his brother," he exclaimed, apparently all the explanation he thought was needed.  
"And? I'm sure if you were given the chance you'd kill Mycroft," John judged honestly. They had a sibling rivalry that bordered on the insane.  
"He'd obviously be the main suspect, so killing his brother would be utterly idiotic, and I doubt he's that stupid."  
"He could be."  
"Only he isn't," Sherlock persisted.  
"What's gotten you so worked up?"  
"What are you talking about? I'm not worked up. A death that appears to have no effort. One suspect who couldn't possibly have done it. A murderer who takes to torturing his victims in abandoned warehouses that mock their livelihood, and absolutely no leads whatsoever. Not good ones anyway. It's like Christmas, only better."  
"You enjoy having nothing to go on?"  
"The hunt is always more fun than the catch, John," he said, his words having multiple meanings. A double entendre? "Ask his secretary for the address, directions, all of that. I'll go grab us a taxi."  
"Sher-" he didn't bother continuing, the huge coat billowing slightly from the wind coming in through the revolving doors as Sherlock headed for them. Sighing he wandered over to the main counter, smiling at the secretary. "Mr Cartwright said you could give me directions to Drew Hughes?"  
"Mhm, he told me just now in an e-mail. I wrote out his address for you." She passed over a sheet of paper, eloquent handwriting having scrolled down the details.  
"So, you and Sherlock Holmes," Miss Reid said coyly.  
"What about us?"  
"Lover's spat?" she asked crudely.  
John coughed. "Excuse me?"  
"I work in a building of powerful people who try and hide their feelings in all matters and I've picked up on a few things in my time here. The tension between you two was about to make my brain burst." Her deep red lips emphasised the brain and burst, making him feel even more uncomfortable.  
"It was nice chatting to you," he rushed and then made a bee line to the taxi waiting outside.

"Got the address?"  
"What do you think I've been doing?"  
"Being idle."  
John looked at him incredulously and relayed the address to the taxi driver who nodded in confirmation and drove into the main line of traffic.  
"You think I'm that useless?"  
"Oh, John, don't go making a scene out of everything," Sherlock said tiredly.  
"Making a . . ." he couldn't straighten his thoughts into a coherent sentence. "I give up. You're insatiable, hurtful, and-"  
"And what?"  
"Never mind. Actually you know what, 'and' you're wearing. Very, very wearing."  
"As much as I enjoy the insults you have for me, I thought we'd spend our time better by thinking," Sherlock brushed past John's words with ease. "Brainstorming."  
"You never need another person's input," John said bitterly.  
"I need yours."  
John squeezed his eyes shut, pinching his brow. One second he loathed Sherlock, the next he felt nothing but amazement, adoration, dare he say it: love. The mind of a sociopath. He couldn't make sense of it.  
"I'll start then, shall I? No one of the planning committee or law sectors had anything to gain from Dale's death or life in the matter of the warehouse: So, they're scratched out. What's left is his brother, who again has nothing to gain and wouldn't be thick enough to do it. We must be missing something, a component to it all, a clue, something we haven't factored in," Sherlock rambled, his pace quickening to match the lightening speed of his thoughts.  
"Well, you have the killer themselves. They must have had a reason to do what they did. Torture, perhaps to get information from him."  
"Dale worked in project development, nothing of such great importance goes on in that sector. The killer has a mind of a sadist; he would have done it merely for enjoyment. To stave off boredom."  
"He randomly picked his name out of a hat?"  
"Perhaps. Or maybe he was hired. Hired by a third party."  
"But no one gains anything from seeing Dale dead."  
"That we know of,"  
"Sherlock, I think you're looking for something that's not there."  
"There must be something, John. There's always something."  
"Give it a few days then, Sherlock. You'll run that tap of yours dry if you carry on like this."  
"My tap?" he questioned, understanding that it meant his mind of course, but did so anyway to annoy John a little. "And I'm always like this."  
"Yes, that's what worries me. Never eating, constantly thinking, it's not good for your health."  
"You've never said so before," Sherlock told him with a suspicious eye.  
"Well, I've never really thought about it a lot before."  
"What's changed?"  
"I don't really know," John said puzzled by it himself.  
Sherlock looked out the window. "Well, it looks like we've arrived."  
He gave the driver cash and then jumped out, twisting around on the spot as he absorbed the environment. John climbed into the open air and took in the lines of houses himself. They were a creamy beige, each with two pillars before their front steps. Grand could barely do it justice. Black iron fences protected their windows as well. He spotted the number of Drew Hughes' house and started for it. Sherlock was still spinning, observing.  
Up the small flight of steps, he knocked three times on the black wooden door. It was pulled open and a young man came into view. His light sandy hair rough and sticking about the place, his white dress shirt untucked on one side and his odd socks.  
"Oh, sorry. I wasn't expecting any visitors," he laughed awkwardly, his voice elegant and cultured. "Who are you?"  
"Dr John Watson. You are Drew Hughes, correct?"  
"Yeah, that's me. What's this all about?"  
John leaned back. Sherlock was still examining the place. He caught sight of John and the glare he was giving him and came at once.  
"Hello, Mr Hughes. I'm afraid we, uh," Sherlock choked back a sob, "we come with some devastating news."  
"It might be best you sit down," John suggested, eyeing Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. Another persona then.  
"Um, well if you want to come in?" Drew invited politely, brows furrowed, oppressed by worry. They walked in towards the main living room to which they were directed. "This news?"  
He sat down on a white armchair, gesturing to them to take their seats on the sofa. Sherlock sniffed dramatically and John rolled his eyes.  
"Who are you?" Drew stared at Sherlock, clearly unsettled by his act.  
"Oh, god, I'm so sorry. Dale and I, we were good friends at Charles Cane. Helped each other out a lot," he explained, his smile forced - apparently pushing passed the pain. John couldn't fathom how ridiculous he was being.  
"Dale? Is he okay?" The fear in Drew's voice was unmistakable.  
"He's," John paused. "He was found this morning. Dead."  
Drew's blue eyes hazed over, his skin becoming a terrible pallor. "No."  
"It's just terrible," Sherlock sobbed. John elbowed him in the side, getting annoyed with his obscene act.  
"It is. It really is. Terrible and really awkward," Drew spoke, voice steady. His eyes were alight again.  
"You don't seem that upset," John observed.  
Drew laughed. "I don't do I? You should probably be a little bit more distraught though."  
"Dale's dead, how is it funny?" Sherlock asked with fake frustration.  
"Drop the act, Sherlock."  
"He never told you his name," John noted, trailing off at the smirk on Drew's face. Sherlock had discarded the display.  
"I'm waiting," Drew whispered to them melodramatically.  
"For what?" Sherlock queried.  
"For John. To you know, act distraught. He really should have started already. I don't have all day,"  
"He's your brother!" John reminded him, as a last defence against whatever was happening.  
"I know," Drew sighed.  
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "You want him to act distraught because we were wrong about you. You killed Dale, I'll assume?"  
"Nope. I'd never kill my brother. You were right to think that," he said with respect. "Now, John. Defeated, crushed, heartbroken even. You're the one who starts the real performance."  
"Am I the only one not getting this?" John's tone was becoming hysterical.  
"I'm lost, as well," Sherlock stated calmly, eyes narrowed.  
"You think your're lost now," Drew muttered with a chuckle. "You have no idea. Sherlock Holmes. Clueless."  
The corner of Sherlock's mouth lifted. "I reject that in its entirety."  
"You can't. It's fact. Tell me then: what's happening right now?"  
"You're delusional and have a severe mental health issue that needs to be addressed," John snapped, his sanity wearing thin.  
"Something's going to happen," Sherlock murmured prophetically.  
"Starting to catch on I see. A few moves behind though, so apologies but we need to get on with this," Drew said and got to his feet.  
"What's going to happen, Sherlock? What's going on!?" John's mind was confounded, stuck and twisting. He didn't understand what was happening. How could anyone? He looked to Sherlock with wide eyes. "Tell. Me. Now. Please?"  
"I'm so sorry, John," he apologised, sounding beaten. Like he'd lost a card game. "I didn't see this coming."  
Bang.  
John's ears rang after the shot went off. Who had been shot? Who fired? He double checked himself, ears still tingling and ringing - feeling like water was blocking them. No wound. He was safe.  
Sherlock.  
He stared at his friend, who hadn't moved an inch. He looked fine as well. Then who was hit?  
"My, my, my," a gruff voice repeated, the owner walking in from the doorway. Gun still in hand. "Finally, the daemons get to wreak their vengeance upon the one who fights for the angels. The crusader of justice."  
Sherlock turned his head slowly, face pulled taut and eyes cold. The ringing subsided and John could hear clearly, looking over the newcomer. Tall, six foot something. Heavily built, like a soldier. Dark eyes and a cruel expression.  
"Moran," Sherlock wheezed with recognition. Wait, wheezed?  
"Does it hurt?" the other man asked, voice plain and void of anything empathetic. Almost hopeful in fact.  
"It's different to my expectations."  
"Always is. I could have hit your heart, you know. Missed on purpose."  
"Sherlock," John gulped, looking over the lean physique of the sociopath he adored. "Where?"  
"Right shoulder. Through the Brachial plexus nerve fibres," Moran informed him with delight. "Must be painful. You should be screaming right now."  
"I don't scream."  
"Not yet," he retorted ominously. John searched for the wound and found it. The blood was seeping through Sherlock's jacket, a dark stain spreading as the blood welled.  
"How can you be so calm with that injury?" John asked, forgetting about Moran entirely. He could recall his own bullet wound, his shoulder as well. The agony had been unbearable. Staying so composed, it was too surreal to make sense of.  
"Pain is in the mind, John, nothing more. Acknowledging it at the moment serves no purpose. If anything it's counterproductive," Sherlock said almost mechanically.  
"I'm glad you think so, because pain is going to become your life, Sherlock Holmes," Moran threatened.  
"Why?" Sherlock was doing all he could to keep his voice level but John could see it in his eyes. The anguish he was experiencing.  
"I'll let you figure that one out. You know who I am, which is all you need."  
"Vengeance you called it. Ugh, avenging your father, how boring," Sherlock whined, wincing when he tilted his head back.  
"Trust me when I say you'll soon be entertained," Moran said darkly. A hand clamped around Sherlock's mouth and John jumped in horror. He tried to snatch at the new figure but a tight sharp pain pulled at his neck. He clawed at the object another stranger had wrapped around it, cutting off his oxygen supply.  
"Sherlock-" he croaked out, fighting against his own assailant as he watched in terror. Sherlock wasn't fighting back, and a sensation like ice cold water running through his blood overcame him when he realised why.  
"Chloroform, Dr Watson. Old but effective," Moran said pitilessly. Lights burst behind John's eyes as the blood swelled in his head, his chest heaving for air but being denied. It burned and his eyes watered. Two men hoisted Sherlock's limp body and carried it away.  
"Nn-" John slurred out a failed 'No'.  
"Good night, Dr Watson. Remember Sherlock well."  
The string, tie, whatever it was, pulled tighter around his neck. His body ached and throbbed, his mind drumming and his chest searing. Finally the darkness prevailed and he fell into an unwelcome abyss of unconsciousness.


	3. Unaware and unprotected.

"No!" he jolted awake, coughing and heaving at the pain in his neck. Wrapping a hand around it to soothe the bruise left behind he shakily got to his feet. "Sherlock?"  
The lights were off and only moonlight gave him any sort of sight. He was stood in Drew Hughes' house. Looking around he saw the sofa's cushions in disarray, kicked and thrown out of place by both his and Sherlock's struggling. Running a quivering hand over his face, John searched through the house. To no avail however, as nothing helped. No clues, no mention of Moran. Lestrade would be able to help, hell even Anderson; he felt his trouser pocket for his phone to find it missing.  
"Come on," he said in defeat. Running down the stairs and back to living room he heard an unsettling crunch beneath his foot. Looking down he saw the destroyed remnants of his sister's old Nokia - broken by the kidnappers no doubt. He paced for a while before going outside and crying out Sherlock's name. Useless, but relieving. The odd passer by gave him a questioning stare but he ignored them and grabbed the next taxi that passed, heading straight for Scotland Yard.  
"Lestrade!" he called, marching into his office.  
"What the bloody hell is it, Dr Watson? I'm in the middle of a case," he said with irritation, Donovan leaning at his side over an open case file.  
"Sherlock," he began and the memory swam back, a wintry fear blowing through him. "Sherlock, he's been taken. By some men, their leader was called Moran."  
"What?"  
"We went to Dale's, the victim's, office and found out he had a brother. We went to his house, and it was a trick and they took him, Lestrade. They shot him, and drugged him, and took him," he blurted out what his mind could manage to process as he felt the worry settle into his bones.  
"Just breathe, Dr Watson, okay? When did this happen?" Lestrade took out a notepad, ready for the information.  
"A few hours ago?" he guessed, his voice jumping a pitch again. "It was still light outside-"  
"How can you not know when?" Donovan.  
"Because, I was strangled so apologies for not keeping track of the time in my unconscious state," John growled, his mind fatigued.  
"They attacked you?"  
"Of course they attacked me!" he yelled, holding back his temper and concentrating on his breathing. "Sorry."  
"It's understandable you're upset. I'll get a team over there immediately," Lestrade said, newfound determination in his voice. "Address?"  
"Thank you, and here," John gave him the sheet Miss Reid had written it on, his hand shaking.  
"All you can do now is go home and get some sleep. Maybe pay a visit to St Bartholomew's?" Lestrade proposed.  
"I'll give you a lift," Donovan said and walked John out of Lestrade's office.  
"I don't need to go the hospital. I appreciate your help but I think I'll just go back to Baker Street," John concluded, his head spinning.  
Donovan watched him with doubt. "You sure?"  
"Yes, I'm sure," he insisted, holding his breath until she nodded sympathetically.  
"Sherlock can handle himself. Don't worry," she comforted.  
"I'm not worried," John lied. Lying was better than letting the truth out. If he lied enough he might start to believe it.  
"Right," she said skeptically. "Don't do anything stupid."  
"I'm not Sherlock."  
"No. You're complete opposites aren't you?" Donovan mulled out loud. John didn't response, he just acknowledged what she said and left swiftly. To do anymore would reveal the way he really felt. He wanted to curse Sherlock, and then kill him and then save him and then never let him out of his sight. He just had to go and get himself kidnapped, didn't he?  
"Don't give up hope, John," he told himself as he caught a cab back to his, their, flat. "He's not gone forever."

"John," Sherlock breathed, groaning at the pulsing in his shoulder. It had grown more intense than he recalled, then realised why. His eyelids were heavy but he forced them open and saw that his arms were pulled unyieldingly above his head; they were fastened with iron chains connected to the ceiling. The ceiling which he couldn't even make out. Fighting against them for a moment he came to the conclusion it wasn't possible to get out of the chains. Not without help. He blinked away the haziness of his sight and took in his surroundings. Black. That's all there was, an impenetrable darkness. The only light was one shining down on him - as if he were an angel, something sacred.  
Disappointment took a seat in his mind when he noticed his lack of a shirt. They never thought of anything new. Chained up in darkness, shirtless and bleeding. Unbelievably cliche.  
"Are you going to torture me?" he asked the nothingness. Someone was listening. They always were. "Like you did with Dale?"  
A dry laugh rumbled from his throat. "It's not going to work you know. If you want information you might as well kill me now."  
The silence endured. "Oh, I see. Sherlock Holmes, his mind is his weapon. Psychological torture then, I suppose? Criminals," he spat the word. "You never think of anything new."  
"Sherlock!" John ran into the light, his breath sharp and fast. "Thank God I found you!"  
"John?" Sherlock asked puzzled. "How did you get here?"  
"The guards to this room, they left for a break. I managed to slip in. Lestrade will kill me if he finds out I came alone, so let's not tell him, okay?" He reached up for the chains, trying to undo them.  
"How did you find me?"  
"Your phone. It was still in your coat when they took you, and when they brought you here, well they brought it too," John explained still out of breath. "Dammit, it's locked."  
"You don't have a key?"  
"I didn't exactly have time, now did I?"  
"Could have planned it more thoroughly," he noted.  
John's brows shot up in disbelief. "I'll just leave you here then shall I?"  
"Always so easily wounded, John," Sherlock chuckled.  
"Who's there!?" he voice demanded outside. The guards had returned.  
"John, if they find you here," Sherlock warned, admittedly concerned for his friend. His one only, true, loyal friend. Who was willing to undress him. "Hide."  
"No," John objected. "I'm going to get you down from here!"  
"You'll do a poor job of it if you're lying dead on the ground," he said in a low voice. "Please, John. Save yourself."  
The doors burst open and two armed men charged in.  
"Step away!" one of them barked, holding up his assault rifle, poised for attack.  
John continued his futile attempt to free Sherlock.  
"John," Sherlock hissed. "John, stop and do what they ask. I'm begging you. They'll shoot you if you don't. John, please!"  
The rifle went off. John's mouth hung open, his skin one hundred shades lighter. His knees buckled and fell forwards, clinging onto Sherlock.  
"John," Sherlock said, practically ordering him to acknowledge his own name. "John!"  
"This is," John choked out, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. He looked up into Sherlock's eyes. "This is my fault."  
"No, John, no. This isn't your fault, it isn't," Sherlock's words surged from him. His heart was beating so hard against his ribcage it hurt. "Please, don't blame yourself, John. I'm the one who roped you into my life. I'm the one who dragged into my work, and for that I can't apologise enough."  
John smiled, his breathing shallow, fingers clawing at Sherlock to keep himself standing up straight. "I didn't think it would end like this. Me trying to save you."  
Sherlock's chuckle was running with sadness and memories. "You thought I'd save you and you'd die anyway?"  
"No, no," John slurred, head lolling. "You all ready saved me, Sherlock."  
He fell to the ground limp, his eyes staring upwards as the light of life they had dwindled and died away.  
"John," he murmured, staring down with a painful burning in his eyes. "John!"  
A hard hit against his face brought reality crashing into him. Sherlock blinked, looking to find nothing where John had been only a moment ago. The doors were no where to be seen, no guards, no noise. Silence. Silence and the man who'd slapped him.  
"Atropa belladonna, my dear Holmes," the man said, smirking. "Hallucinations are nasty things, aren't they? I'd tell you to wipe your tears, but you can't can you?"  
Sherlock stilled as he felt the coolness of a breeze blowing over his wet cheeks. He'd been inadvertently crying. Choosing not to ponder on it for long he asked, "Who are you?"  
His voice was hoarse, his mind still adjusting to what was happening. John had felt real. He'd sworn it had been real.  
"My name isn't important. You don't mind if I call you Sherlock, do you?"  
"Not at all," Sherlock replied, still fazed.  
"Good," the man said with a smile, which morphed into a face crunched with sick enjoyment as he pushed his thumb into the wound in Sherlock's shoulder. The agony sparked to life on a new level, speeding through his nerves to his brain. The result went beyond simply painful. A cry tore from his throat, barely recognisable as his own. He could feel the foreign object dig deeper into his flesh, past muscle and tendons, scraping against the fibres themselves. White light glared behind his eyes, the anguish consuming his mind while his throat became raw with the strain his screams were putting on it.  
"This is only the start, Sherlock," the man sneered into his ear. "You will suffer, oh, will you suffer."  
Knuckles collided with his nose, cracking the bone, and his brain shorted out like a melted fuse.

"John, I brought you some biscuits and tea," Mrs Hudson told him gently, placing a tray on the coffee table in front of him. He was sat in the arm chair, staring at the black leather one opposite where Sherlock should be: knees pulled to his chest while sulking about stupid people, shouting corrections to the television, tuning his violin. "John, dear?"  
"Hm? Oh, thank you, Mrs Hudson." He reached for the pot, putting all of his concentration on the sensation of the porcelain as he wrapped his fingers around the handle. The weight of it as he lifted it and poured a steady stream of boiling water through the tea leaves and into the finely decorated cup. The process soothed a part of him, observing the steam coil and rise into the air, fading into nothingness as it curled softly.  
Pouring in the milk, John lifted the cup in its saucer, bringing the rim of the porcelain to his lips but no further. The warmth tingled against his skin.  
"You shouldn't worry so," she told him, her words laced with concern. "I'm sure Sherlock's fine. He always is after all."  
"This time's different," John said calmly. "He said sorry, Mrs Hudson. Sherlock, he . . . he never says sorry. Which makes this time different."  
"Dear," she sighed and he felt her put a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. "He's strong, John. He's not some feeble damsel in distress. Trust me. In a couple of days you'll find him, still insulting everyone until they want to murder him themselves."  
John chuckled, a tiny smile forcing itself onto his face. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Really, thank you."  
"It's my pleasure," she noted somewhat happier. With that he heard the door close and the creaking of the stairs as she descended. John took a slow sip of the tea, feeling it trickle down his throat, burning slightly in its heat.  
"Where are you, Sherlock?" he asked the empty space. "Who's Moran, and why did he take you? What does he want from you?"  
So many questions swam in his mind, drowning him. None could be answered, which made the ocean weigh him down even further.  
"I'll find you . . ." he declared quietly. "I'll find you and bring you back and I'll keep you by my side. For good."  
"John!" someone called. His head snapped up, hope firing into life. The flame sputtered instantly when Lestrade walked through the doorway. "Another murder. Same kind, probably the same person. I thought you should be there. The car's waiting outside."  
"Right, I'll be down in a moment," John said, clearing his throat of the lump that had settled there. He put the cup and saucer down, back on the tray, and got up. Fetching his jacket he pulled it on as he raced down the stairs. Getting away from 221b might be good for him. Less wallowing insured. Outside the weather still battered him, a grey rug thrown over London. Climbing into the police car it rode off, heading towards the north of London.  
"Did you find anything at the warehouse?"  
"Sherlock was dead on. We found blood. Lots of it. Forensics confirmed it as belonging to Dale Hughes so we've found the first crime scene," Lestrade versed him. "This second one is in Hyde Park."  
"That's bold of them. The killer I mean,"  
"Yeah it is. He's showing off now which means he's getting confident. More so than he all ready was, which means he's more likely to-"  
"Kill again. Why though? Why is he killing these people?"  
"You don't know? I thought," Lestrade trailed off.  
"You thought what?"  
"You and Sherlock went to Drew's home. He was brother of the victim. There men were waiting for you and nabbed Sherlock. It was planned that way, John."  
"So the murder-"  
"Was to pull Sherlock in. He would go with just you because the rest of the police would be off to Sands End. A perfect opportunity to take him when he's unaware and unprotected. No offence to you of course, but armed police officers are a side better than an army doctor," Lestrade explained, thinking like a criminal.  
"This second murder must be related as well," John thought to himself aloud. "It could lead us to Sherlock."  
"Maybe," he said doubtfully. "Let's go have a look. Hope you didn't eat a lot for lunch."  
The car was parked on the edge of the park, others with their lights flashing blue and surrounding the place. Policemen walked around the park, asking people if they'd seen anything, keeping the public out of the way.  
John followed Lestrade, the vibrant hues of amber, yellow, crimson and shifting green leaves that littered the paths creating a beautiful sight. Leaves were plucked from their branches by the wind and rolled on the air, flying high then low before drifting to a stop on the ground. As if nature were dancing in salute of the life that was lost.  
Ahead he could see it and he froze. The woman was chained to the tree trunk, her clothes torn and muddied. Her skin darkened with grit and dirt. Her head. No where to be seen.  
"If you want to go back, feel free. Your medical opinion might serve well though." Lestrade watched him. "It's worse than you think."  
"How," he began, swallowing, "can it be worse?"  
"Come and see for yourself," Lestrade said and started towards her again. Apprehensively he moved forwards too, closing the couple of meters until he stood only two feet from her body. John's breath caught in his throat, incapable of coming out.  
He's a screamer.  
Carved onto her chest in a fine script, the words in blood sent chills down his spine.  
"You okay?" Lestrade asked him. John shook his head slowly.  
"No," he choked out. "They mean Sherlock. This, this is talking about Sherlock. Isn't it?"  
"Probably. When forensics get here they'll comb the area and if they find anything about a location I'll tell you immediately. Can you help? With the injuries and the possible causes?"  
John closed his eyes for a moment and opened them with a set mind. "Not now. Not with this staring at me. Sorry, Detective Inspector. Maybe some other time."  
He left Lestrade by the corpse and half jogged to get a taxi. "Belgravia, Eaton Place."


	4. Darkness swarmed into him, drowning him.

Sherlock felt a hand caressing his cheek, running down from his temple, over his cheekbone, down to his jaw line and up to the other side.  
"Time to wake up, Sherlock. You can't sleep forever. Not yet."  
"You're not going to kill me," he mumbled, his thoughts slow like wading through tar.  
"So admirably intelligent of you," the man said endearingly. The next moment his fingers were digging into the hollows of Sherlock's cheeks. He could taste blood from where the flesh of his mouth was cut against his teeth. "Now wake up."  
The sudden pain was enough to grab his attention so Sherlock opened his eyes, coming face to face with a pair of black ones.  
The man's face was cast almost entirely in shadow. "There we go. I have a present for you."  
He lifted a rectangular leather box to Sherlock's face and opened it with a click. Inside sat a syringe on a bed of red velvet.  
"I don't do drugs. Not anymore," Sherlock said wearily, rolling his eyes at the absurd presentation being given.  
"Even if you did I doubt you'd like this one."  
"Not a very good present then, is it," he remarked, staring down his kidnapper.  
"Very funny, Sherlock. Now isn't the time for entertainment though."  
"Oh, I don't know. Comic relief has served it purpose on enough occasions. Certainly wouldn't have done any harm earlier," Sherlock added with a grin.  
"How about I just give you your gift?"  
"I'd really rather you not."  
"Come now, it is a present after all. I'm not gonna be too delicate about administration I'm afraid, so apologies," the man explained, taking the syringe from its resting place and jabbing into Sherlock's neck. He felt the needle deep inside his skin and the excruciating pain that followed when whatever was inside began to flow into his bloodstream.  
"What is it?" Sherlock asked through clenched teeth, a burning sensation in his body.  
"Why tell you? It'll spoil half the fun if you know what's making you suffer," the man responded cruelly, removing the syringe and putting it back in its box. "The effects are immediate so in a few seconds you'll know exactly what I mean by suffer."  
Sherlock's stomach twisted as a wave of nausea hit him and he began to dry heave. He'd felt sick before in his life, despite the rarity of it, but nothing like what he was experiencing then. Every muscle in his body convulsed and he choked momentarily. Then his muscles relaxed again and he took in oxygen quickly before they convulsed once more. This time though it lasted longer, and the pain became more intense. His back arched and his blood thrummed in his temples. At last it ended and Sherlock held back a sob from the agony.  
"An hour or two and you'll be dead," the man told him happily. Again each muscle pulled taught, his bones aching under pressure.  
"Pre-" Sherlock forced out before his jaw clamped just as the agony sliced into him again, "dictable."  
"Perhaps. Effective nonetheless," the man sighed. "I'll give you some time alone. Enjoy the wait."  
The click of a lock told Sherlock the man was gone. Somehow the loneliness amplified the agony. Then a thought came to him. A brilliant thought. His mind palace. Slowly but surely he began retracing his steps of the archive for all his memories. He imagined the feel of the marble of his palace as he padded along the corridors leisurely, checking each room as he passed its doorway. The mnemonics of all he had learned jolting the memories to life.  
Ahead something was drawing him closer, the door at the end of the hallway. Putting his hand against the grain of the wood his pushed it open. Familiarity swarmed over him in recognition. This was the place he had designated to John. His walking stick was resting against a wall, reminding if of the psychosomatic condition, then the new addition of Sherlock's bed. He'd barely realised he'd chosen that as his mnemonic for John being willing to undress if the situation required it. Wandering over to it he fell onto the soft mattress in his mind, looking about the room and watching his past with the man come to life.  
"So, how are you holding up?"  
Sherlock was wrenched from his palace and thrown back into reality, the anguish resuming with an uncontrollable passion. His every nerve twitched with oncoming spasms as his body writhed. Breathing was becoming harder and his facial muscles contorted.  
"Just fine, thank you," he replied, his words garbled and stunted through the sudden shaking of his very core.  
"Antidote? I think you've had enough for now," the man said and brought a rag to Sherlock's face, smothering his nose and mouth. "Chloroform will control the convulsions. While you're unconscious I'll give you some activated carbon to absorb the poison. Can you guess what it is yet?"  
Sherlock's sight became hazy, but he knew the answer. Strychnine. It explained the spasms, the nausea, and the treatment. He had extensive knowledge on poison, as any good consulting detective should. The darkness bloomed to life in the corner of his eyes and crawled its way to make him entirely blind. Then it entered his mind and one by one his thought processes shut down, leaving him dormant. Resting and waiting for the next 'adventure'. At least he wasn't bored.

John ran up to the door and banged against it incessantly with his fist clenched.  
"I know you're in there!" he yelled at it and continued hitting the wood.  
"Hang on a second!" a voice shouted back and then he heard the door unlock and it was swung open with an agitated Drew in view.  
"So you do actually live here?"  
"Dr Watson, so nice to see you again. How's dear old Sherlock doing? I've seen him on the news, or at least a remarkable resemblance of him. Pictures can hardly do that man justice. Quite the buzz, detective gone missing. All the mystery freaks are jumping up and down about it."  
"Can you just explain to me?" John asked tiredly, suppressing the pain that resurfaced at the mention of his friend's presence in the news. Lestrade had insisted it might help with the search, but John had doubts. Big ones.  
"I don't think we're on the same page," Drew said with befuddlement.  
"Why did you kill your brother? Why did this 'Moran'," John quoted with his fingers in the air, "take Sherlock? You're obviously involved, so, for my sanity, please: explain."  
"Do you want to stand out here while I give you the long winded explanation?" Drew queried, looking to the outside world with disdain.  
"I'm bloody well not going inside again."  
"Can't imagine you'd want to after last time. Well, where to start," he tapped his chin, leaning against the door.  
"Summarise," John snapped. He'd been pushed to the limit once already today. "In fact, explain the 'He's a screamer' that was carved into a woman's chest."  
"Ah, that," Drew recalled with a smile. "He knew it'd get under your skin."  
"Explain," John reiterated.  
"Fine, fine. You can interpret it in many ways, just so you know. That's no subtle inclination to sex just to clarify. I kid, sort of. The true meaning is that when being forced to experience excruciating pain, your Sherlock loses his calm, defying stature. He screams."  
John felt his blood curdle and he forced the lump in his throat down. "You know this? How?"  
"Rumour. I have a link to this man your police are looking for, and this man has a link to Moran. Moran hired him to hurt Sherlock Holmes and he's doing a good job of it. Dale? Well he was just so annoying. Sibling rivalry, what can you do?"  
"Not kill your own brother! Sherlock was sure you didn't do it,"  
"Well I bet he was sure he wouldn't get kidnapped and tortured too. He's not always right, Dr Watson."  
"Tell me where to find him."  
"Can't."  
"Why not."  
"Because I don't know, jeez. Has anyone ever told you your questioning style is pretty poor?"  
"Can you tell me where to find Moran? Or the torturer? Can you tell me who the torturer is?"  
"Give away the game? Of course not. Moran," Drew paused, thinking on how to phrase it, "now he's a hard man to get a hold of. The sort that finds you, not the other way round, you know? This has really hit you hard, hasn't it Dr Watson?"  
"He's my best friend, of course it has," John said astounded. Would the situation do otherwise?  
"I think there's more to it than that. There I go again, rumour," he smiled and laughed, putting a finger to his mouth. "Just because seeing you so very pained is so damn heartbreaking, I'll give you two words. Thornton Heath. You might even get to him in time, before-"  
"Before what?"  
"You asked me about Moran, and why he wanted Sherlock. His father, an ex-army like you actually, got into some bad loops a few years back. Crime syndicates, drugs, that sort of thing. Sherlock was working a case, well when I say working I mean consulting, and he and some officers got into a tricky situation. In the end, Mr Holmes put a bullet in his dad's head. As you can imagine, Moran wasn't too happy about it and . . ." he waved his hands in the air. "Tada. Moran plans to kill Sherlock when he's done making him hurt. Good old retribution, and some crazy religious referencing thrown in too."  
"And you helped this man? You might have ended up an accessory to murder, will end up an accessory to kidnap."  
"I told you all ready, Dr Watson. I wanted my brother dead, Moran had the means, me the motive. I didn't care about how he did it, so he used Dale as a piece of the puzzle he laid out for Sherlock to solve. Sherlock went looking for this one, brought it down on himself. Now, if you could leave? I have some important cases to look over."  
"You're a lawyer?" John asked incredulously.  
"Barrister, actually. Runs in the family. Have fun," he closed the door on John's face. He stood for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Thornton Heath. He reached for his phone then remembered the disassembled state it had been in. Making a mental note to get a new phone he caught the next taxi, heading for Scotland Yard.

John walked up to Lestrade. "Thornton Heath."  
"What about it?"  
"I think, I hope, Sherlock is there. I spoke to Drew Hughes,"  
"You mean the one who you visited when Sherlock was kidnapped?"  
"Yeah, shouldn't he be arrested?"  
"Can't touch him. He's got a wall of lawyers standing between us and him. So, he told you where to find Sherlock? I doubt he's telling you the truth, as much as it pains me to say it."  
"Just this once, believe me. Search for him there. Please, I beg of you. I know, in my gut, that that's where you'll find him,"  
"Well I'd hate to deny any man of such determination the chance to be proven right," Lestrade said with a smile. "Donovan! Get a few squads together and head down to Thornton Heath. Start searching abandoned buildings, warehouses, factories, anything."  
She looked up from paperwork and came over. "Why, sir?"  
"Just do it," he ordered her. "Oh, houses for sale too? If you encounter any problems tell me and I'll call up the agencies."  
She nodded, eyed John, then walked off, beckoning several officers to her side as they left.  
"Aren't you going?" John asked with surprise.  
"I have about six other ongoing cases here. Sherlock's only been gone three days and already the department's getting swamped. Makes you appreciate the arrogant bastard more."  
"Can I go with them?"  
"No, I'm sorry. If they do find Sherlock I doubt he'll be alone and I can't afford to have a civilian on sight. Even if you were an army doctor, you're still another worry for my officers, and your emotional state could endanger them."  
"My, uh, my emotional state?"  
"You interrogated Drew Hughes, on your own and with no possible way of contacting someone to help. The guy who set you and Sherlock up. On a normal day you'd have the sense to tell someone, anyone. You didn't. That tells me you're emotionally compromised," Lestrade revealed his thought process. "If Sherlock's there we'll find him."  
John chewed the inside of his lip. "Mhm."  
"Want a ride?"  
"Why do people keep asking me that? No, I do not need a ride. I'm an adult and I can make my own way home," he said with pent up frustration and apologised to Lestrade with a sigh and a nod when he received a questionable look. "I know, I know. Emotionally compromised was it? I'll be off then."  
"I'll fetch you when we find him."  
"Thanks," he said as he walked off, clenching and unclenching his fists.

When John got back into his flat he threw his jacket over the armchair and collapsed on the sofa, rubbing his face with his hands before lacing them together behind his head.  
"Sherlock," he practically groaned his name, worry rampaging inside him. "Whatever you may be, please don't be dead. I don't care about what Drew told me. A life for a life? By that thinking I should be dead myself. You had no right to get yourself kidnapped, and no right to go and die. Not with things like they are."  
Pressing his palms against his eyes he tried to dull the overwhelming sadness that kept trying to ruin him.  
"Only three days and look at me," he laughed through a sob. "A chemical defect my arse."

I always hear 'Punch me in the face' when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext.  
A smile danced along his lips as he reminisced in John's room. Sherlock didn't know how long he'd been sat on the bed, looking at the mnemonics scattered around. He didn't care. The sharp jolts of electricity that ran through his body at intervals pushed him to concentrate even harder on the lodged away memories he had of John. Subconsciously he'd been saving so many things and occurrences he'd done and had with the man. Perfect to delve into when trying to push past the experience of torture.  
"You're alone, Sherlock," John whispered in his ear causing him to leap from the bed and spin around frantically. Still in his mind palace. No John. "You may declare your fondness for it, being alone, but we both know that just isn't true. You need people to admire you, be in awe of you, or you're nothing."  
Sherlock laughed as he pulled himself from his mind to reality. "Couldn't be more wrong."  
"Really? About you being alone?"  
"About all of it," he choked out as another surge of pain coursed through him.  
"Then tell me, great Sherlock. Where are your friends? Your policemen friend, Lestrade," the man inquired, leaning closer as he pushed the cattle prod into his side. "Your flat mate, Dr Watson? Or do you prefer him to be called John? That's all you've been uttering for the last three hours after all. Miss him? He doesn't seem to miss you."  
"Oh, do please shut up. Your attempts of psychologically harming me really are pitiful."  
"Then answer me: Where are they?"  
"Busy, looking," Sherlock listed nonchalantly, cringing as more current hit him, "or they don't care."  
"And you're okay with that?"  
"I survived on my own long enough. It's not hard to do."  
"What about John?"  
To this he pondered for a moment, thoughts hastened by another round of zap the Sherlock. "Don't need him."  
"Sure?"  
"Positive," he said, voice steady. He wasn't though. His stomach curled in on itself as he wondered about it, being without John. True, he'd survived alone, but something in him recoiled at the concept of experiencing that loneliness again.  
"You're right, my attempts are pitiful. Ineffective. Destroying your mind with such tactics seemed like poetry, but you need something different. Something different than the others. For them, I let it draw out. Long. Slow. Agonising. You? How does hurting you so much you beg for mercy then cutting your throat sound?"  
"Like fun," Sherlock drawled, head buzzing from the electric shocks. "But I don't beg."  
"I'll mark the calender then, shall I? The day Sherlock Holmes pleaded for his own end. John will appreciate that, won't he? I'm sure he enjoys the knowledge that you scream," the man said softly with poison in his words.  
Sherlock's brows furrowed. How could John know he had screamed? "What?"  
"I left them all a message. One more to go and then finding you will be the finale. I'll hang you on a lamp post, outside Scotland Yard. All the world will see you broken, see you dead," the man imagined  
"Ugh, always so melodramatic," Sherlock groaned.  
"And old fashioned," he added, sniggering. "I have a whip I've just been dying to use. None of the others lasted as long as you for me to get it out. Now's my chance I suppose. Sleep well for now. I'll be back."  
A rag covered his face, the rough fabric scratching against his skin. His lungs were forced to inhale the burning Chloroform and his thoughts quickly dissipated into nothing but strings of incoherent ideas, soon after that no thoughts at all as his vision left him.

Sherlock's entire body awoke violently when pain radiated across his back, arching forwards to escape.  
"Morning, Sherlock."  
Another line of searing agony sliced into his back.  
"Let me think now," the man told him sternly. "One hundred is a good round number, don't you think? Let's work in sessions. One hundred whips first, then another hundred, then another, and so on. Get the idea?"  
The hardened leather slapped against his skin once more, and he could feel the red blooming from the blood rushing to the surface.  
"I'll stop if you fall unconscious though, so don't worry about missing anything out."  
Sherlock's hands clenched into fists above him. His nails dug deep into the skin of his palms, drawing more blood, as he held back any scream or cry. He wouldn't give this man the satisfaction of it. Not again. He receded as fast as he could, escaping to his palace. Escaping to the room, shrine practically, of John. He pushed his mind further into the memories as the whipping became more brutal, faster. Soon he was so buried in the past Sherlock could smell John, the aroma that wafted in the air whenever he walked past. Clean, shaven, military. He recalled John's eyes. Steel grey, hardened by the sights of war, but determined. Caring. Honest.  
His body was shaking with the shock of the onslaught and sweat shone on his skin from his muscles tightening in protection.  
"Thirty three," the man counted, but his voice was muffled. Like hearing someone shout your name when you're underwater. Distorted, surreal. Sherlock immersed himself further into his mind. He'd never ventured so far into making his palace feel like reality. His memories to feel current. To merge the past and present was a risk, but he had to. To survive he had to. He was dying as it was. His torturer had force fed him glasses of water, but no food. His body was weak and deprived and if he let himself experience it fully? The biology of the situation was inevitable.  
The backlash of the whip echoed in the darkness and his muscles tensed as it hit forwards again. "Forty eight."  
Sherlock kept his eyes closed, keeping his mind separate from his body. The mental rift made the pain numb and distant. The familiar baroque styled wallpaper of the room, and the memory jogged from the handcuffs sat on a coffee table - the same table from 221b - entertained his mind enough.  
"I must say, you're being awfully quiet," the man remarked and came around, his black eyes staring at Sherlock. "Cat got your tongue?"  
Sherlock didn't respond. Instead he took the break to catalogue the damage that been done. Sixty five stripes layered his back, bloody and stinging. His lack of input aggravated the man and he stepped back, launching the whip into Sherlock's face. The force made his head snap to the side, a crimson cut running across his cheek.  
"Temper, temper," Sherlock scolded. He could see the glint of the single dull bulb's light on the man's teeth as he smirked.  
"Just for that," he started, pulling something out of his jacket, "I'll make it that much worse for you."  
Walking behind him again Sherlock felt the air move as the man did, shifting and opening what sounded like a draw string. Then agony cascaded down his back, each cut burning like a thousand suns.  
"Salt. I reconsidered using it when I came in here to find you looking like a beaten, half dead puppy. No wonder they haven't sought after you. With such terrible bed side manners I shudder to think of the hell they must have gone through."  
"Your use of past tense tells me you don't think I'll get out of here," Sherlock noted, analysing anything he could to keep his mind functioning instead of stalling with the pain.  
"This is your fourth day in my company, and I haven't even begun with the really fun stuff. Of course, it's going to have to go quicker than I had planned. To get to the killing you part. That is if you're still alive."  
"You're all words. I've endured nothing thus far that I couldn't think up half asleep. B-o-r-i-n-g." He was lying of course. The belladonna had been a surprise. A painful, gut wrenching surprise. Nothing more than that though.  
"I'm deeply offended," the man mocked, sniggering as he rubbed in another handful of sodium chloride into the lashes on his back. Slithers of pain travelled along his receptors, carrying on to do so even after the man had pulled away. An unearthly crunch of shattering bone in his side and a new kind of agony flowered as his ribs broke. Coming back into view the man was swinging an iron crow bar, then stood still and held it out. His eyes ran over it in admiration before looking up to him.  
"Can you speak?"  
Sherlock tried, oh did he try, but his voice was lost and tears sprung up in his eyes. Even the movement of breathing tortured his pain receptors, and with his shallow breathing he grew light headed.  
"There we are then. One problem solved," he declared with joy. "I wouldn't move about too much. Might puncture a lung."  
The man's laugh rang in Sherlock's head as he left, this time doing one thing differently. He turned off the one light source he had, the darkness swarming into him, drowning him. He'd never been afraid of the dark. Not in most situations; sometimes it was a good instinct. This time, delirious with blood loss, starved and suffering in pain Sherlock felt scared. Genuinely, shockingly and undeniably scared. That fact alone was frightening in itself.  
John, he thought. Please, find me. I can't think my way out of this one. Not this time.

I need you. Just this once, but I really do honestly need you.

Please.


	5. Drugged, bittersweet longing.

John stumbled out of his room half asleep but waking up fast. He dashed for his ringing phone on the coffee table. Snatching it up he answered and held it to his ear.  
"Tell me you found him. Sherlock, where is he?" He held his breath in anticipation.  
"John, there isn't any sign of him," Lestrade said mournfully, hope having fled his voice.  
"You're wrong. You must be wrong. I'm coming over. I'll check over the search myself, the reports given in by your officers. They must have missed something," he insisted, his heart hammering in his chest.  
"We'll continue looking, John. Come to Scotland Yard if you want but I doubt you'll find anything. Who's to say Drew was telling you the truth anyway?"  
"I say so," John whispered, his thoughts leaping about the place, panicked and in a frenzy.  
"Breathe, John. I know he means a lot to you. You're the one person I think he genuinely likes. We will get Sherlock back and lock up the bastards who took him, okay?"  
"Yes, yes, I know. I know," his mind drifted for a moment. "I'll be there in an hour then?"  
"Whenever you like," Lestrade said comfortingly. It was in that moment John realised. Realised that Lestrade felt sorry for him. Treating him special, as if he were a confused child you didn't understand why his parents had to leave for work.  
"See you in a bit," John ended the phone call politely, cradling his mobile in hand for a minute. He'd been reduced to what? He couldn't even think straight. Running a shaking hand across his face, John went back to his bedroom. Proceeding with brain numbing routine of getting dressed, brushing teeth and hair he let his thoughts simmer. Gave himself a momentary break from the constant fretting that had made it almost impossible to sleep.  
Coming back out to the living room he found Mrs Hudson putting down her own routine tray of tea. "Oh, John. Good you're up."  
Her thin smile was false but the thought was what counted. He thanked her graciously and indulged in the humdrum simplicity of tea drinking. He growled to himself as all thoughts revolved around Sherlock. Tea, John, think tea.  
After a few contemplative minutes he forced himself out of the comfort of the arm chair and to the stair well, jacket in hand. There he stood, looking down the steps that turned the corner off out of sight. It felt hollow, like a part of Baker Street was missing and it made it all feel strange. Wrong.  
John made his way outside and grabbed a taxi. He regretted having forgot an umbrella the moment he'd stepped outside. Rain had hammered into him instantly, and the drops battered against the taxi's window panes relentlessly on the drive to Scotland Yard.  
Once there he headed directly for Lestrade's office, finding him inside looking at files.  
"Are those the-"  
"The cases in Thornton Heath, warehouses, abandoned buildings, factories, vacant houses to let, the whole lot. Not one turned up anything. Sherlock isn't there," Lestrade informed him with age showing in his tired face.  
"If you wouldn't mind?" John wasn't going to back down in looking for himself. No matter how much people were attempting to dissuade him. Lestrade nodded and leaned back, staring at the paper littered desk with vexation.  
Taking the initiative, John began to pour over each file with ruthless scrutiny. He internally cursed at the lack of detail in the reports, but what they gave was enough to tell him which places really weren't suspect to suspicion.  
Soon the words printed in ink floated in his mind, a swarm of useless information that mocked him with each file he worked through. He had pulled up a chair and was reading a paragraph of one of the final reports when something caught his eyes.

Two story building, loft filled with insulation, semi detached, for sale. Empty for three weeks, new residents unconfirmed. Early nineteenth century modelling inside, refurbishment and reconstruction taken place in the year 1972. No sign of squatting, forced entry or activity of any kind.

He reread it, this time it jumped out at him: 'early nineteenth century modelling'. He wasn't an expert but he did know that plenty of buildings from that era had more than two stories. In fact he was willing to bet his life on it. For Sherlock, he'd bet anything.  
"Lestrade!"  
"Don't tell me you found something?" he asked incredulously. John pressed his finger to the page.  
"Early nineteenth century modelling it says."  
"So?"  
"So, the officer listed it as two story with a loft. That time period, most houses had a cellar."  
"Not all houses,"  
"No, but what if this is one of those houses? Are you honestly up to ignoring a possible lead just because it's not solid? At this point we should grasp at anything. This is Sherlock we're talking about."  
"I know who you're bloody talking about!" Lestrade said in offence before he calmed down. "Right, I'll send some officers down there later today."  
"Let me come with-"  
"Do I need to explain to you again?"  
John could tell by the hard set of Lestrade's jaw he wasn't to be questioned. Not now. "No, right. Is there anything more I can do?"  
"You've helped enough all ready. Trust me. I didn't catch that. Good work, Dr Watson. You may, 'may' being the key word, have saved Sherlock's life."  
"He's not saved yet," John reminded him like the realist he was. Sometimes his honest outlook of life was unbearable. He always knew the sad truth of the matter; the truth, well it usually was sad.  
Lestrade registered John's sudden gloom. "He will be."  
John got up from the chair and handed Lestrade the file before he left, walking towards to the lift to take him down. It was going to end today. He felt almost giddy and the need to smile was unbearable, but then another side of him chained down all happiness. Shocking into him the fact that it might not be the place. He was after all grasping at smoke. Smoke always slipped between your fingers, escaping to never be found again.  
Climbing into the lift he almost back pedalled instantly. Anderson stood impatiently, he too sharing an expression of sadness at the view of the other. John had never gotten to know the man personally. He did seem unpleasant, and the strong opinion Sherlock held of him can't have been unwarranted. Actually, it probably was unwarranted, knowing Sherlock's twisted way of looking at the world - enemies and all - but it had rubbed off on John anyway.  
"Anderson," he acknowledged neutrally, stepping into the lift.  
"Dr Watson," Anderson responded, his voice tense.  
John pointed his finger to one of the buttons. "Ground floor?"  
"Yes," he answered. His voice really was rather nasal. Poor sod. To sound like that with his unpleasant demeanour and alleged personality? He definitely drew the short straw at some major point. John pushed down the button and stood back, his back straight and chin lifted - his old army self still prominent.  
"I knew Sherlock would get himself into trouble one of these days," Anderson remarked blatantly.  
John swallowed the anger fighting to spew from his mouth. "Did you now?"  
"He's always been reckless," he continued, "I suppose that's just how a psychopath acts."  
"I don't need this right now, Anderson," John said truthfully.  
Anderson watched him with those beady eyes. "You should get away from him."  
"Why?"  
"He almost got you killed. He's going to get himself killed sooner rather than later. You may have ignored our warnings when you first got involved, but you must understand what we meant then now."  
"I'm not leaving Sherlock," John stood his ground. "Not ever."  
Anderson shook his head. "You're insane."  
"Maybe I am. At least I have a heart," he said after a moment's thinking.  
"Sherlock doesn't. That's the thing," Anderson pointed out as if it were fact.  
The thin wire of control remaining began to creak at its limit. "How would you know!?"  
Anderson shut his mouth and silence followed.  
"Exactly," John hissed and stormed from the lift when it dinged open on the main floor. He was acting like a stroppy teenager. Great. No better than Sherlock on a slow day. Instead of going back to Baker Street, John headed for the restaurant. The restaurant, where he and Sherlock had first gone out together. The awkward conversation, and the start of something John never knew could grow into something even more. Sentiment. Sherlock wouldn't be happy with that.

Sherlock woke at the sound of gunshots. He choked into the darkness, still barely capable of breathing and the pain still lathering every part of his body, inside and out. Squinting into the empty view he hoped to see someone, something move. A sign, even though it scared him to think it, of the torturer having returned. Isolation like this was driving him mad. He'd been mentally unstable and off for all the time he could remember, but this was different. Everything about the situation was different.  
Then voices floated to him. He could here heavy footsteps approaching. A group.  
"Bring the battering ram!" A rough voice barked from beyond the wall of darkness. Sherlock hung there, registering what was happening but not believing a moment of it. He'd had this kind of dream before. It had ended with John's death and the harshness of reality hitting him square in the face. The screech of unyielding metal echoed into the room as the strangers began to barge down the door. Another slam, and another screech, the hinges or lock, whichever it was, beginning to give way. Another. Light streamed through the darkness and blinding Sherlock for a moment. Then another.  
"Hello?" he heard a familiar voice yell. He couldn't find a voice to reply with, head swimming. "Again!"  
The door broke down and open, a waterfall of noise, police officers and light battering into him.  
"Get back! Someone, get him down!"  
Sherlock kept his eyes closed. Better let the dream fade away than let himself get swept away by it. He retreated to his mind palace, sitting on the bed and tapping his fingers along John's cane. Anything to ignore what his mind was tricking him into believing.  
"Sherlock!"  
Don't listen. You'll give in to what the sadistic killer wants. It's fake. It's not real.  
He heard the snap and his arms overwhelmed with a sense of relief. Also shock as he dropped to the ground, someone's arms keeping him from hitting his head on the floor. By doing so the also put pressure on the cracked ribs and he felt them dig deeper into his innards, and the friction of cloth against the cuts on his back attacked his nerve fibres on a new level. His throat was too raw to cry out but a rough moan scraped its way out to display his agony.  
The grip lessened and then he felt himself being hoisted up and down onto a stretcher. The bobbing feeling let him know he was being carried away, then upwards.  
"Is he alive?"  
"Vital signs are weak, but he's breathing. Pulse is weak too. It's lucky we found him. He won't have lasted much longer," a knowledgeable voice explained to Lestrade. Sherlock knew the other man's voice, it had just taken him a minute to distinguish whose it was. In his mind, sat with John surrounded him, he didn't want to leave. Reality had betrayed his hopes too much. Yet again though, this was a game changer. Different.  
Tentatively he opened his eyes just in time to have an oxygen mask placed over his nose and mouth. The pure air pushed into his lungs and more pain radiated at his side when his chest expanded. The icy breeze of outside rolled over him and then he was being lifted into the back of an ambulance.  
He had seen the grey sky and felt light rain drops, now he stared up at a pristine clean white ceiling and the faces of strangers working on him. They tested his blood pressure, prodded at his wounds and then injected him with something. At the touch of the needle against his arm he stilled and his breathing stopped. Panic began to swell up in his mind and more tears returned. Soon though, whatever had been in the syringe was pumping through his blood and the effect was remarkable. All his senses dulled, and the pain subsided. The first time in a long time his body began to relax and his mind slumber peacefully.  
The siren fired up and the last thing he recalled with a bright light shining into his eyes as a paramedic checked his pupil's reaction. That and the screaming noise that alerted all other vehicles to get out of the way. If it was a dream, the vividness was terrifying. He hoped it wasn't a dream. For once he wanted to embrace reality. He yearned for this to all be real. Wanted it so much it made him cry out of drugged, bittersweet longing.

John chewed the brunch slowly, savouring the taste of the eggs and sausages. His mind was hazy, unfocussed. When the waiter approached him, telling him he had a call, he didn't respond for a good minute.  
"A call," he repeated, "for me?"  
"Yes, Scotland Yard. A Detective Inspector Lestrade," the waiter explained and gestured to the phone sat in its holder on the wall.  
John put down his fork and knife, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "How'd he know to call here?"  
"You have to ask him yourself," he said finally and then left to attend to another waiting customer. He got up and walked over to it, staring into the black plastic questioningly. After a seconds deliberation he picked it up.  
"Lestrade?"  
"John, I'm glad I found you. I've been trying to get a hold of you for a good twenty minutes,"  
"Why?"  
"It's Sherlock. You were right, John. He was there, but man," Lestrade trailed off. "The state he was in. The doctors say it's a bloody miracle he's still alive. They're talking about poison, drugs, internal bleeding, shattered bones, severe psychological trauma. It took five specialist doctors just to persuade Sherlock he wasn't dreaming, I mean . . ."  
"Which hospital?"  
"Mayday University Hospital. London Road, Thornton Heath. He's in surgery right now-"  
"Surgery!?" John exclaimed, his grip on the situation unpredictable. His stomach was twisting in impossible ways and his fingers tingled.  
"Internal bleeding, remember? They've guessed that . . . that he was hit. With a crowbar,"  
"A-a what?"  
"Also, he, um. Burning from, uh, electrocution. Then, whipping," he rushed the last part. "Just, get here. It should take a while but Sherlock won't be out of surgery for a while so you'll have a wait. Meet me in the hospital lobby, okay?"  
"O-okay," John agreed, fury and terror making his arms quiver. Putting the phone back in its slot he threw cash onto the table to pay for the half eaten meal and then caught a taxi. The drive seemed to take an aeon, and one thousand theories ran through his mind. One thousand possible outcomes of the reunion with Sherlock. He was alive though. Barely, but he was alive.  
It gave John one of the greatest feelings he'd known. Just the knowledge that his best friend wasn't dead. That there was still time to solve crimes with him. Disapprove of him when he conducts experiments on three week old eye balls apparently given from people who had donated their bodies to science. A smile crooked at his lips.  
When the taxi pulled up by the curb John gave the driver all the cash he had, being thanked profusely in return. He was in too much of a rush to quibble with technicalities of how much to pay someone. Sherlock was in the building he was heading into. That's all that mattered. Inside he found refuge from the rain and spotted Lestrade a few yards off.  
"Dr Watson, you made it here quickly," Lestrade said in surprise but gratefulness nonetheless.  
"Yeah, well I had a good driver. Is he still in surgery?"  
"Yes, but he should be out in three hours I think it was."  
John let the information soak in. "Wow, that long?"  
"They have a lot of stuff to fix," Lestrade commented with dulled sadness. "Not to mention blood transfusion he needs."  
"He lost that much blood?" John queried in horror.  
"I really don't know a lot about what's happening. How about you grab some seats in the waiting room and I'll get us some coffee."  
"Sure," he said and wandered to a blue cushioned chair. Sitting down his took in his surroundings. The few fellow waiters, who had boredom or worry written over their faces. Some had nervous ticks, others were as still as statues.  
He watched as nurses passed this way and that, doctors carrying files and the occasional emergency case being hauled in on a stretcher with a swarm of paramedics at attention. Sherlock had come in like that. Suddenly, dread weighed him down in the pit of his stomach.  
"Here you go," Lestrade said as he handed him a cup of coffee, the cardboard cuff keeping the boiling heat at bay. He sat down in the seat next to John.  
"The kidnapper?" John asked him, looking up to the Inspector.  
"Not there. There were a few squatters though. Very recent ones. A man apparently showed them the place early this morning. They were armed as well. It just doesn't make sense," Lestrade sighed, taking a healthy wig of the hot liquid.  
"Honestly, I didn't expect it to," John muttered, sipping at the coffee with fondness. The warmth was welcome after the cold of outside. "Three hours you said?"  
"It's gonna be a long afternoon. I might need to take off though. I need to speak to the squatters, I hope you understand,"  
"No, no. It's your job, Lestrade. I completely understand."  
"Will you be okay waiting here alone?"  
"Contrary to what Sherlock might tell you, I'm perfectly capable of being on my own."  
Lestrade nodded and settled back, eyes on the clock. John couldn't sit and watch time tick by, so choose to immerse himself in one of the magazines put out. Gardening. Not very interesting, but it was something to pass the time.  
After the long hand had moved to account for an hour and seventeen minutes, Lestrade's mobile rang. Answering it, John knew he would be leaving.  
"Right, I have to head back. The squatters have some information on the kidnapper and they won't speak to anyone but me. I'm not sure when I'll make it back, just make sure you're there when Sherlock wakes up. God only knows what that man's been through," Lestrade requested and then got up. "See you."  
"Good luck," John said with a heartfelt smile, giving a small wave as Lestrade left. Time then on became blurry, abstract. His eyes couldn't concentrate on the small print words of any magazines or newspapers so he gave up trying, choosing to watch the workings of the hospital instead. At least the workings he could actually see.  
His eye lids grew heavy with nothing to do, and soon he found himself dreaming. Dreaming of what, John had no idea. Dreams tended to be fickle, odd. Hard to make sense of even when experiencing them  
A hand shaking his shoulder jolted him awake and he shot to his feet. A man in scrubs stood in front of him, slightly alarmed at the suddenness of his revival.  
"John Watson?" the man checked.  
"Yes, that's me."  
"Sherlock Holmes is ready for visitors,"  
"What time is it?" John asked, astounded at how quickly time had gone by. Peering to the clock he swallowed to see it was seven. In the evening. How long had he been sleeping? Eight hours? He'd been having restless nights but that was just ridiculous. "Right, uh, where is he?"  
He rubbed the sand from the corner of his eyes as the nurse led him through the maze of corridors and patients rooms. They seemed to have hundreds. The walls and floor all shone with the fluorescent lights in the ceiling. Everything smelled of disinfectant as well. He could never have imagined the situation he was in. Keeping a track on the nurse taking him to Sherlock, John studied the happenings about him. There was so much he could see from so little. All thanks to a man he'd once loathed for a great deal.  
"Here we are, Doctor," the man announced kindly, nodding to John before heading down the hallway. John put his hand to the cool door handle. It turned warm as his hand rested there. Through the glass window in the door he could see a figure, long and lean, beneath hospital sheets. In a hospital bed. He swallowed down the lump in his throat with great difficulty before pushing the door open and stepping inside.


	6. Like war.

"John," that same voice stated, like the pluck of a cello chord. He stared at Sherlock in the dark room. The blinds were lifted so moonlight and street lamps illumined the room somewhat. Even through the substantial gloom John could make out the dark curls, the angular face, the eyes that could always see so much. Joy overwhelmed him and for a moment he forgot how to breathe. Then his eyes noticed things he wished they hadn't. The absence of a normal hospital gown, instead white bandage encasing Sherlock's entire chest. Then the dark bruising around his wrists and long cut running the length of Sherlock's cheek. "I take it you're not accustomed to my current state?"  
John carried on examining from a safe distance. The morphine hanging to the side, dulling the pain Sherlock must surely feel.  
"What," he started but then lost his voice. John cleared his throat and waited for it to return. "What did he do to you, Sherlock?"  
Sherlock's stare became distant. "An all manner of things. Things I'd rather not ponder on at the moment, if you wouldn't mind."  
"O-of course, not," he said shakily before closing the door behind him. Slowly John walked to the side of the bed; he was worried he'd scare Sherlock. He didn't know why. "Are you all right?"  
"Given the current state of affairs I seem to be doing rather well. Or at least that's what the charming Doctor Vann keeps insisting," Sherlock replied, his obvious satire for the doctor making John grin. "That's better."  
"What is?"  
"Your depressed mood was beginning to bring me down, John."  
"You can't expect me to be happy as can be. Not when you're like this," John admitted, looking down to his feet.  
"Your concern is touching," Sherlock said softly, but when John chuckled lowly he added, "Really."  
Looking up John found himself lock into the man's gaze. "Sherlock-"  
"Yes?"  
The sound of his voice sent shivers down John's spine. "I missed you."  
"You know John," Sherlock began seriously, "you're the reason I'm alive."  
John scoffed. "I don't see how."  
"The memory of you technically."  
"What do you mean?"  
"The memory of you. Who you are, the experiences we've shared. Turns out they've all coalesced in one room in my mind palace. I found that room and it's what saved me. Kept my mind working," Sherlock disclosed. John flinched back out of instinct when a cold finger brushed against his hand. When he realised it was Sherlock's he moved back to it, watching with fascination and apprehension as the long elegant fingers wrapped around his own hand. The two were so contrasting. One cultured, smooth with intellect, violin playing. Eloquent. The other rougher, hardened by battle and with the scars of war.  
"I was so worried," John said, his voice cracking slightly. "So worried that you were dead, Sherlock."  
"I feared I'd die without you knowing, John."  
"Knowing what?" John forced his eyes back to Sherlock's. There again they were caught, marvelling in their crystal blue colour, the dark black rings deepening their impact.  
"I need you, John."  
John's heart leaped, thrumming away at twice the speed. He knew his cheeks were reddening with the blood pressure as he could feel the heat. His mind tuned all thoughts, the entire world out, but from one. Sherlock.  
"Quite the revelation, isn't it?" Sherlock laughed gently, sending vibrations through his hand and into John. "I'm not sure if it was the direness of my situation that pushed me to think so deeply. Regardless, I'm grateful for it. I need you, John, yes. It's more than that though."  
"Sherlock, I-"  
"John, let me finish," Sherlock asked him sincerely. "John, I . . . John, I . . . John-"  
John chuckled at Sherlock's resistance to continue. His head swam at what he might say, but his patience wearing thin was his main problem. "Spit it out all ready."  
"I love you." Sherlock's face was set, watching for John's reaction. "Explicitly platonic love I might add though. Don't go getting ideas, or-"  
"Shut up, Sherlock," John almost ordered him and leaned forwards quickly so that he couldn't be stopped. He pressed his lips against Sherlock's gently but surely. The contact made John's mind empty. All he could think about was the silky texture of Sherlock's lips, the faint peppermint scent and the intoxicating warmth. Pulling back a few inches, John waited for Sherlock to do or say anything. Instead, he just stared.  
"John," Sherlock started, and John laughed at himself quietly, standing back.  
"You're right. Sorry, I don't even know what came over me. I'll let you rest," he rambled, flustered and afraid of the coming rejection.  
"Hold on a second. I didn't even say anything," Sherlock objected, tightening his grip on John's hand.  
"You were going to say-"  
"Don't stop. That's what I was going to say, John." They exchanged a look of mutual consent and yearning.  
"Finally," John breathed and moved right back to Sherlock's lips, catching them with his own. The exchange of humid air and moisture was mind consuming, that and the sensation of their dancing tongues. Groaning John pulled away again. "Oh, this is wrong."  
"I beg to differ. Elevated heart rate, dilated pupils. This is simple chemistry, John."  
"No, not that. I mean we're in a hospital. You're condition is weak and I don't know. It's wrong."  
"I'm recovering from a traumatic experience. All you're doing is helping along with that process, like the good Samaritan you are," Sherlock gave his view with a smile before licking his lips, luring John closer. "It's not like you to deny an injured man assistance, John."  
"You're the devil, you know that?"  
"I told you once. I'm no angel," he finished quickly before rejoining with John. He pulled him closer until John was on all fours over Sherlock. Not much of his own decision, as Sherlock had manoeuvred him there with a few simple prods and tugs. Their hands interlocked, John's pushing Sherlock's into the far too puffy pillow. The kiss deepened substantially until Sherlock himself let out a moan. John had to stop for a moment at the unbelievably stimulating noise.  
"Someone will come in or hear," John noted two fears he had.  
"Lock the door," Sherlock suggested, but made no inclination to let go of John's hands. Looking to the door so far away John knew he wouldn't bother. "Well then."  
Sherlock's one hand left John's and instead cupped the back of his head, pushing it down to meet his once more. John felt Sherlock's other arm wrap around his back, pulling him down, but he resisted. Sherlock had bandages for a reason, and he wasn't about to risk hurting him. When he refused to let his body lower Sherlock stopped the kiss.  
"I thought you wanted this?" he asked. His eyes held that unfathomable innocence Sherlock could display at the strangest of times.  
"I don't want to hurt you."  
"You won't."  
"Oh, really?" John slid his had down Sherlock's chest and soft white fabric of the bandages. Once it rested on his stomach he pressed down and Sherlock's face gave the game away. He cringed and John heard the inadvertent whimper he made. "See?"  
"Your logic is sound, I'll give you that."  
John's head dropped as he laughed. When he looked up their noses were touching, breaths mingling with one another in the short space between them. "You never want to be wrong, do you?"  
"To be fair, I'm almost always right," Sherlock said confidently and smiled as he delved into another kiss.  
"Arrogant bastard," John breathed into his mouth. Sherlock's hand moved from his head and began to wander about the places on John he could reach. First along the line of his scapula, then along his side. The next area nearly made John collapse in shock. "Sherlock."  
"Hush, John," Sherlock silenced him as his hand undid John's belt buckle.  
"Sherlock, not here. Not now."  
"Then when? I've just spent a good four days in a dark room being tortured. This is my reward for staying alive."  
That hurt. Any feeling of sadness provoked by Sherlock's statement were wiped when a hand slipped in somewhere no others had gone. He was about to object again but Sherlock's mouth smothered his and stole all of his words. The sensations sent electrical shivers through his body, and a fiery warmth grew in his lower body.  
"God, where the hell did you learn to do this? I thought you were a-"  
"Virgin?" Sherlock practically hissed the word. "Oh, John, you do disappoint me. You never paid much attention to my book collection."  
"You're telling me you read how to-"  
John's arms buckled at the abrupt wave of pleasure and it took all he had to stop his legs from doing the same. Staying on his elbows his chest brushed against Sherlock's, and gave him better access. The speed increased and John's breath was short, frantic. Even more so as Sherlock barely let him breathe with the continuous dizzying kisses. A random and exiting thought suddenly struck John.  
"Sherlock, are you wearing trousers?"  
The smirk he received didn't bode well. "My dear Watson. If you want to know, I give you my blessing to check."  
"Not funny."  
"Not intended to be."  
The atmosphere darkened somewhat but when Sherlock resumed his regular strumming John's lust took over.  
"You have no idea, how much I've wanted this," he panted between kisses.  
"Mm, John, I think I do. Funny how two people can want the same thing, but it takes a near death experience for either of them to act upon it," Sherlock said in wonder, words dispersed by the occasional moan. John's hips were moving with Sherlock's movements and his thoughts centered entirely around the present. Perhaps for the first time in years. Aside from cases, nothing provided the same kind of escape. It was utterly exhilarating. "Now, John, I've been keeping track of the check ups and they happen every forty five minutes. You and I have been engaged here for twenty eight, and the last check up was seven minutes before that."  
His mind sped with the calculation. "We only have ten minutes then?"  
"Don't you find being under a time limit that much more exiting?" he breathed.  
"No," John answered with concern halting his movements.  
"You will," Sherlock chuckled and then kissed him again, his hand moving faster and faster below. The pleasure was astounding even to John and alongside the melting kiss he would honestly be okay with dying there and then and going to heaven.  
"Sherlock," he got out within the kiss, his words muffled, "I'm going to, well, oh god."  
"That's the whole point, John," Sherlock reassured him, grinning into their embrace. The fire had grown and was getting out of control. A thin sheen of sweat covered John's skin and he knew it was only a matter of seconds. Sherlock sped up, grip tightening.  
"Bloody hell," John breathed and then squeezed his eyes shut as the fire broke free. An ocean of bliss crashed into his body and his muscles tightened, breath caught as his body shook. A long sigh blew out from his mouth and then Sherlock kissed him for a second before falling back against the pillow. He removed his hand and examined it before wiping it on the thin bed sheet.  
"Feel better, John?"  
"You have no idea," John breathed, resting his forehead against Sherlock's. His entire body felt ready to collapse and his thoughts felt heavy in his mind, drunk on ecstasy.  
"Five minutes," Sherlock updated him, the back of his hand caressing the side of John's face. "When I'm more . . . physically capable, shall we put it-"  
"I'll be having you," John concluded for himself before grinning. He was still panting and Sherlock was still making his entire body tingle. "Married to your work, you liar."  
"Things change, don't they?" Sherlock captured John's bottom lips with his teeth and pulled gently. "Sadly, unless you want to be caught on top of a patient you might want to get off."  
"Are you trying to get rid of me?"  
"Of course not," Sherlock replied. "I wouldn't dream of it. I'm thinking only of you and your potential embarrassment."  
"What? You wouldn't be embarrassed?"  
"Why should I be?"  
John laughed and climbed off of Sherlock, legs unsteady but capable of keeping him up straight. He'd need to visit a bathroom and clean up. Preferably soon. John turned back to face Sherlock who watched him with such a look of fondness John could barely recognise it.  
"Are you really okay?"  
"No, John, I'm not. You, though, you're making me okay."  
"I thought love was a chemical defect? Found in the losing side?" John asked, recollecting Sherlock's phrasing from a few months beforehand. Sherlock's comment still wounded him to that day.  
"Then I'm defective, and I'm losing," Sherlock embraced it, leaving John in silent bafflement. "I think the odds will change in our favour, though."  
John nodded, contemplating. Then he edged forwards and leaned down, pressing a kiss against Sherlock's forehead.  
"Get better," he murmured before heading for the door.  
"I intend to."  
Looking back one last time he saw the man in the bed, watching him. Smiling to himself John left the room, just in time as a nurse passed him and began to check on Sherlock's vitals.  
Walking down the corridor awkwardly he followed signs for the toilets. A warmth glowed in John's chest and the dread had been burned away. Sherlock was his. He was Sherlock's. The thought brought a smile to his face once more.

John put the groceries on the table, heading for his laptop on the desk.  
"John." He span around with shock to find Sherlock lying on the sofa in his pyjamas.  
"When did you get back?"  
"An hour ago."  
"In your pyjamas?"  
"Don't be silly, I changed into them."  
"It's four in the afternoon."  
"I was going to take a nap."  
"What are you talking about, you never take naps."  
"Well now I do. The doctors suggested it since it will help with a full recovery. Utter stupidity of course. Why would I want to sleep my life away when I've all ready done so for the past, what? Eight weeks?"  
"Do you want something to eat?" John inquired, standing awkwardly.  
"I was thinking sex."  
He coughed, eye brows raised. "Excuse me?"  
"'I'll be having you'. That's what you said," Sherlock reminded him, throwing his legs up into the air dramatically as he lifted them from the sofa and put his feet on the floor. "Eight weeks ago."  
"I was in the heat of moment."  
"Oh, that you were," Sherlock practically growled causing John to cough again. He coughed to clear his closing throat and to make some sort of noise. Just not speak. "Are you getting a cold?"  
"No."  
"Hm. So, what have you been up to?"  
"I've told you. I visited you almost everyday, Sherlock."  
"Then what have you been up to since your last visit?"  
"I went out and bought some food. I also slept and had some breakfast."  
"Interesting," Sherlock said cryptically.  
"Not really."  
"No, it's interesting that that's all you do when I'm not around."  
"What are you implying?"  
"Nothing, of course," Sherlock lied through is teeth with the addition of a meant-to-charm smile. "Now, I'll head over to my bedroom and you can come join me when you're ready."  
He got up and headed for his room. John stood entranced with the t-shirt and loose trousers which shifted perfectly to display Sherlock's strong, chiselled physique, as he walked. When he was alone he tugged off the grey knit jumper which was suddenly far too warm.  
About two months previously he'd had what might the most unforgettable sexual encounter he could recall with anyone. With the man who was now beckoning him to join him in the bedroom. John remembered everyone's warnings and smiled. If only they knew the whole extent of the matter. John was in love with the man they told him to get away from. The man who supposedly couldn't love at all was in love with him. The lack of any and all sense made it all unpredictable and so addictive. Like war, you didn't know what would hit you next.  
John walked quickly to Sherlock's room, ignoring any thought that told him it was a bad idea. Inside he found Sherlock laid back on the bed, staring at the ceiling with his hands pressed together beneath his chin.  
"Sherlock?"  
"Ah, John," he exclaimed with a smile, climbing off the bed quickly and shut the door. "Let's not waste any time."  
In the next second Sherlock was on top of him pushing John onto the bed. Their lips locked and that familiar fire stirred hungrily. Only this time he knew Sherlock shared it, the groans he was making providing evidence.  
"Too many clothes," he complained like a child and began to strip John. He reciprocated the action and did so for Sherlock too. John froze. His eyes were transfixed on the bandages that still covered Sherlock's torso.  
"You're still not healed?"  
"They were rather deep wounds. Doesn't matter," Sherlock brushed aside the topic and proceeded to drown John in everything he was. The musky aroma encircled him, made his mind buzz. To be so close to him, mere inches from him. To have his lips moving in unison with his own. John's hand became entangled with Sherlock's dark curled locks, and he ground his hips upwards. His heart thumped heavily when the other man did the same.  
"Definitely too many clothes," John murmured and slid down, pulling off Sherlock's trousers, and then, with great apprehension, his underwear. He was pulled back up and then further along the bed as Sherlock positioned them, throwing John's shirt onto the floor, followed closely by his trousers and then his undergarments too. They were bare to one another. For the first time, nothing hid them from seeing each other in their truest of forms.  
Sherlock made a noise that was more animalistic than human and then attacked John with a ferocious and lust driven kiss. John's arms wrapped around his back, pulling him as close to Sherlock as was humanly possible. The fabric of the bandages made him fear he was hurting Sherlock. If he was, the man made no complaint.  
Their legs rested against one another, and their stomach's touched each time they ground into one another.  
"I bet you read about this too," John panted, following up the comment with kisses to the hollow in Sherlock's shoulder and then the nape of his neck. Sherlock's laughter rumbled in his chest and John became even more aroused. Painfully so.  
"John, is this okay?" Sherlock stopped his intoxicating onslaught and stared down at him. He thought about it for a short while, but the answer was always set in his mind.  
"Yes," he replied simply. Sherlock smiled and kissed him deeply, shifting his hips slightly and then moving John's legs apart. Fingers slipped into him, slick and pumping with a purpose.  
"What-" John panted out with wonder. Sherlock nibbled on his neck before replying, "Oil. I always keep a healthy supply." The smirk he gave John forced a primal groan to tear from his throat. His heart was beating wildly and then he felt it. The pressure and pain as Sherlock pushed into him. "God. Oh, god."  
"I forgot you were such an avid religious man," Sherlock remarked and then shoved all the way in. An odd mixture of pain and pleasure washed through John's body and he cried out, shivering as everything stilled. They were now connected, entwined inside and out.  
Sherlock began to shift his hips backwards and forwards, laying his weight against John. A few tears had slipped out at the then entry, but all the pain drifted away as rapture devoured him. The kissing stopped as Sherlock worked solely on his movements. His head fell into John's shoulder and his soft brunette curls tickled John's face. Sherlock's breath rolled hotly against John's boiling skin and the sounds of panting in his ear made him groan.  
Sherlock steadied himself with his forearms, which rested at either side of John's head, as his thrusting became more desperate. John was slightly terrified at the strength Sherlock held, the power in his legs, the power hidden in his lean body altogether. The muscles looked fine and elegant, but their force was brute in nature. Pain branched upwards with each thrust but the pure ecstasy that accompanied it made it worthwhile.  
"Sherlock," he groaned out his name, and held onto his back tighter, back arching upwards.  
"John," Sherlock breathed into his ear, the hot breath sending torrents of pleasure through his mind. Even through the bandages, John could feel the wounds. They were long, clean cuts. Whipping. That's what Lestrade had mentioned. Then a dark mark on Sherlock's upper arm, beneath which the man's muscles were rippling. Electrocution. The horrors of what had happened to him were written all over his skin and even being bathed in a the sea of pleasure and happiness, John knew something would never be fixed within Sherlock. A part of him would have been broken.  
A particularly vicious thrust brought John back to the present with a moan and then they both came to the final stretch. Each one exchanged groans and mewls as their bodies were torn with the euphoria induced by the other.  
Their bodies were slipping across one another with sweat and the heat was almost unbearable but made their minds even more hazy with the lust. The noises and pants filled the bedroom alongside the soft creaking of the bed as Sherlock thrusted powerfully into John.  
Another four pumps and neither could take anymore. They came together, tensing against one another and embracing the other with the blinding pleasure. Sherlock collapsed onto John, both their chests rising and falling rapidly.  
"Well," Sherlock said hoarsely. "That was, well . . ."  
"Yeah," John rasped, lifting Sherlock's face to his and letting their tongues waltz together one final time. "I don't know about you, but do you mind if I sleep for the next two days?"  
"As long as I get to sleep with you," Sherlock agreed and then turned them around so that John's head was laying against a pillow. Leaning over him his kissed his neck, nipping at the skin lightly before pushing the duvet out from beneath them and letting it fall over them. It was cool to the touch. When Sherlock nestled in besides John, heads side by side and one arm draped over his chest possessively, John couldn't have been more in bliss.  
The weariness caught up to them both and they were swept away by dreams of a future together. Dreams of more times like that which had sent them into the stupor.


	7. I don't fear death.

John huffed out a breath and stretched, rolling over onto his back. Blinking he remembered what had happened and grinned. Sherlock's bed. With Sherlock. He looked over for his newly upgraded flat mate: best friend to lover. A cold air creeped in his chest at the barren space. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Sitting up John scoured the room. No Sherlock. Then his jaw tightened at the sight of paper. A fine sheet of paper folded neatly and placed on the other pillow. He picked it up, one word scrawled in Sherlock's elegant handwriting on the front:  
'John.'  
He opened it up and read it, with his heart thumping in trepidation:  
'I hope you'll understand. Firstly, last night was the single most wondrous thing to ever happen to me. It happened with you, and I will never forget that. However, the situation is worse than I've let you know. The kidnapping was just the start. The man, Moran, who wants me dead. He won't stop simply because the first attempt failed. He'll kill the torturer and find a new man. Someone new to hunt me down and hurt me. That would be fine. I don't fear death. What isn't are the ways in which they'll hurt me. They'll . . . he'll go after you, John. You, Mrs Hudson, everyone I hold dear. So, I've made the decision to find Moran and kill him myself. End what I started all those years ago. When I come back, if I come back, it's you who I will go to first. John, when I said I loved you I meant it. People think I can't love because I'm a sociopath. They're wrong.  
Take care of yourself, 221b and Mrs Hudson.  
Goodbye, John. You always were and always will be more than just my friend.'

The lump had returned with a vengeance and his entire body felt cold on the inside. Tears pricked at his eyes but he forced them back.  
"You idiot," John whispered, his voice weak. "You stupid, arrogant, self-centered . . ."  
He wiped the tears away with frustration and rested his face in his hands, having thrown the note to the side. John clambered from the bed and changed into his clothes, marching to the main living room. He looked up everything he could about Moran, checked the laptop for any signs of booked travel. He checked the bin and found one small, half torn note. Sir Augustus Moran. He quickly looked the man up. He was killed. By Sherlock.  
"He's Moran's father," John said to himself, his mind having switched to the army mode of precision and suppression of emotions. Further reading revealed that Moran's father, Augustus, was a former Minister of Persia. John headed for their collection of world maps, and began searching for Persia, or the officially titled Iran. He couldn't find it. The laptops were wiped clean, nothing left, but Sherlock had forgotten that small scrap of paper and taken a map.  
"You're going to Iran," he stated aloud to try and make himself believe it. John pinched his brow and calmed his breathing. "Right. Well, I'm going to find you before you get yourself killed."  
Researching travel to Iran informed him of one thing. It was extremely ill advised. He wasn't going to travel entirely legally anyway. He didn't have time for that. In an hours time, John had plotted out a route to get there, going through Europe. He packed a backpack and grabbed his jacket. He'd get money and then go. A note sat on the coffee table addressed to Mrs Hudson. It explained the people she could contact if something went wrong - he wouldn't be there to keep the troubles he and Sherlock had picked up over the months away from her - as well as his absence being due to a search for Sherlock. He left out the finer details of course. He also wrote how the journey may be indefinite, and thanked her for all she'd done.

The train began to move, heading south to Dover where he'd get a ferry to Calais. John stared outside as the industrial London blurred past and the green of the country side soon pervaded all else. His pistol was tucked into his trousers, bag resting at his side. His search had begun and wouldn't end until he'd found Sherlock.

**Author's Note:**

> When I wrote chapters 3 and 4 I was listened to some songs to get the atmosphere going and all that for certain bits of it and you could listen to the same stuff when reading them. Sharing is caring after all ^_^  
> But yes, do try it if you're so inclined! Share in the feels that are simply... enhanced by auditory stimulus if you want to go all fancy about it.
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLaGYI2x6UZ4QPLFNanHQ1EmmUTnenXHpf
> 
> Enjoy :3


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